


Bullets and Cupcakes: Duet

by threemeows



Series: Bullets and Cupcakes [2]
Category: To All the Boys I've Loved Before (Movies), To All the Boys I've Loved Before Series - Jenny Han, To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:55:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 30,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22959784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/threemeows/pseuds/threemeows
Summary: The long-distance relationship of a retired international assassin and her former partner can be complicated.Part 2 of the Bullets and Cupcakes series.
Relationships: Peter Kavinsky & Lara Jean Song-Covey, Peter Kavinsky/Lara Jean Song-Covey
Series: Bullets and Cupcakes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1649959
Comments: 248
Kudos: 441





	1. 9 months in

**Author's Note:**

> Light spoilers for the P.S. I Still Love You film, which, if you haven't watched yet you need to re-examine your life and your priorities.
> 
> Title is from the Rachael Yamagata song, "Duet."

“Ladies and gentlemen, we are preparing for our descent into Reagan National Airport ...”

Peter jerks awake - yawns, and stretches his legs. Tries not to hiss when he feels his stitches pull. The infirmary doc in Prague was good – great, even – but he’d be lying if he said he was fully recovered. The flight attendant makes her way down the aisle in first class, retrieving trash, and after Peter hands her his empty cup, he opens the blind to the window.

He’d mostly tried to forget about Lara Jean. It wasn’t that hard. The op kept him distracted - so was the ever-present fear that any slip-up on his end could mean disaster for her. But now, as he can feel his ears pop and the gentle, slow swoop of downward pressure in his chest, he’s beginning to get antsy. Excited.

He’s going home.

*

He’d only packed a carry-on, so it’s just a quick taxi ride back to his apartment. City hasn’t changed much since he’s been away – looks like they haven’t even made any progress on the highway, naturally. And the superintendent changed the type of potted plants in the main hall.

Peter makes the mistake of checking his mail – envelopes come bursting out of the box, so quickly not even his highly trained reflexes can grab all of them. He always makes that mistake when he goes away – forgets to tell the post office to hold his stuff. Whatever. Next time.

Inside his apartment, there’s some dust on the side tables, the counters. He opens the blinds, looks out into the city. Then he goes to his bedroom closet and pulls up the floorboard. Stashed in the dusty corner, wrapped in a Ziplock bag, is his burner cell.

He turns it on, already mentally composing the message. But he’s surprised to find a text message already waiting for him, from early this morning – while he was still in the air.

_I’m guessing you’re due back soon. My little birdies had stopped coming. Now they’re back. Lay low for a while._

Well, shit. The last time he’d seen Lara Jean, the guards were already bored and restless. He’d hoped the Company had moved on during his absence - especially since he’d been very determined to not jeopardize anything. That was the entire reason he’d left the burner phone back in DC, so he wouldn’t become tempted, just in case anyone was still watching her. Guess going up to New York today is out of the question.

He’s about to thumb in a reply - something short and sweet, to let her know he’ll be up there soon, just not now, when something stops him. He can’t really say what. Just that he’s on the floor, in his apartment, and the sun is getting lower in the sky - the light filtering in through the blinds in the way that you can see the dust floating in the air. And he’s suddenly acutely aware that he’s here, and she’s not.

His mouth screws up to the side as he thinks. 

_Well. Nothing ventured ..._

_*_

Getting to New York is the easy part. One nondescript hoodie and baseball cap later and some train transfers later, and he’s already standing down the block to Ingrid + Humphrey’s. The issue is the agent pretending to be a homeless guy panhandling across the street. It’s obviously a rookie – his clothes are clean, the hems crisp and untorn, and just from standing here Peter can tell he’s bored, because he’s barely watching the people go in and out the front door.

So Peter waits, even though standing around on the corner when he’s so close to Covey right now is making his skin literally itch, maddening and antsy. But eventually, he spots his in – the rook starts to nod off. Peter counts to sixty when he sees his chin hit his chest, and then, sure that he’s asleep, darts inside the shop as a laughing couple exit.

The first thing that hits him is the smell – the sugary sweet warmth of cinnamon and chocolate. The second is that despite the late hour, it’s busy, people crowding the displays and chattering at the tables. A harried woman that Peter recognizes as the assistant who was there last time he was here mans the register, ringing up orders. But no sign of Lara Jean.

Not knowing what else to do, he gets in line and examines the display. She’s got a few new stuff in there, but also a lot of the same recipes that she used to make at the house. He’s debating between the tiramisu cupcake – which he knows is delicious – and the salted caramel, which for some reason he can’t recall ever trying when they were in Portland together – when the double doors behind the counter whoosh outward and there she is, carrying a tray of freshly baked cookies and ponytail swinging.

Peter watches, fascinated, as Lara Jean places the tray on the back counter and then turns with two cookies on a plate, handing them over to the woman in front of him in line. It’s all one smooth, fluid moment, almost like she’s a dancer in her own ballet. It reminds him, viscerally, of the time they were in the house together – just watching her fly about the kitchen island, an oddly graceful whirling hurricane as she prepped whatever delicious masterpiece she was making. “There you go,” she says, pleasantly. “Thanks for your patience.”

“Wonderful!” the old lady says, heading to the register. “Have a good night, dear.”

“You too, Stormy,” Lara Jean calls. Without turning to look, she calls, “Next?”

Peter grins, and slides in front of her. “Debating between the tiramisu and the salted caramel,” he says, quietly. “What do you recommend?”

Lara Jean looks up slowly. He watches as her eyes go wide and her mouth drops open in a little O of surprise - he grins at the way her cheeks turn pink. It’s the same expression she had on her face when he’d opened his apartment door and found the cute girl from #403 standing there and looking to borrow some eggs. But then her eyes dart to over his shoulder, and she says, low, “You didn’t get my - ?”

“Rookies these days,” he says, simply. “Can’t trust ‘em to get the job done right.”

“Mmm.” She bites her bottom lip, clamping down on the grin that’s spreading across her face, dimples deepening in her red cheeks, and he can’t help the huge grin back. “I have to stay for closing. Can you wait that long?”

He scoffs out a laugh. He hasn’t seen her in almost a year. The most he managed to send her in his time away was a postcard to let her know he was okay. He can stand to wait a few hours. “Piece of . . . cupcake.”

She giggles, even though the joke is corny as hell, and that makes him laugh again because – god – he’s a giddy fucking idiot right now. It’s just good to see her. “Well, then,” she says, reaching into the display case. She pulls out a tiramisu cupcake, and a salted caramel one, and hands them over on a plate. “They’re on the house.”

*

“Is everything all right? Really?”

Peter nods slowly, half-asleep. He feels Lara Jean shift and opens his eyes. She’s moved so that she’s resting her chin on her laced fingers, her hands on his torso. He reaches over and cups her cheek, and she nuzzles his palm. But her gaze is still concerned.

“Everything is all right, really,” he says, quietly. “Stop worrying.”

“Can’t help it,” she says, with a shrug. “I’m always gonna worry.”

His throat constricts. There’s a lot of responsibility here, the weight of it in between them. And he doesn’t know how to reassure her. Or himself, for that matter. She, of all people, knows exactly what it’s like.

So he defaults – goes back to what’s always been easiest for him. “Well, don’t worry so much then.”

She trails her fingers down his side, stops at the gauze. “Just a scratch,” he says, before she can ask.

“Can I see?”

“Nope,” he says, too quickly.

She raises a brow. “Sounds like more than just a scratch.” She sits up on the couch and the throw they’d hastily tossed over themselves after they were done with their reunion falls from her shoulders, pooling around her bare hips.

His eyes follow the trail of fake fur with a sly grin. “Sorry, what were you saying? Got _really_ distracted.”

She rolls her eyes and pokes the bandage – not hard enough to cause damage but hard enough to make him hiss and grab her hand. She glares at him.

He lifts his brows at her, and insists, still holding on, “I’ll be fine.”

“I know you’ll be fine,” she says. “I just – can’t help feeling . . . you know. Guilty.”

Guilty? What _for_? He strokes his thumb along the inside of her wrist. “Don’t be,” he says, quietly. “I’m a big boy.”

With each whirl of his thumb, her frown starts to melt into a smile. She looks around, laughs. “I have no idea where my underwear went,” she says, as she surveys the wreck of her living room. “Oh.” She leans over and grabs something from the lampshade, near where his head is on the couch. “Well, I found your boxers at least.”

“That’s okay,” he says, pulling her abruptly so that she lands on top of him. Her hair falls around their faces, and there’s a moment where all he can do is lie there in the shadow of her smile, wondering. “We won’t need them.”

She bursts out laughing, and he snickers. Something cold and metallic hits his face and he pulls back, catching the chain of the locket he’d given her. “What happened to the ring?”

She holds up her left hand. There it is – on her thumb. “It was too big, and I didn’t want to scratch it up on the necklace . . . where’s yours?”

“At home. I didn’t want to lose it while I was out on the . . .” Her expression sobers again, and he thunks the back of his head on the arm-rest, frustrated at the turn of conversation. “What? What is it?”

“I just . . .” She sighs, licks her lips, and starts again. “I just don’t want to break each other’s hearts. If anything ever happened to you . . .”

He gets it. He does. All her past partners . . . her mother . . . that last guy she was with. He does get it, because of Genevieve . . . his father . . . and that brief, awful period right after the op, when he was recovering, and he’d thought she was gone, forever.

“I promise,” he says, seriously, “I’m not gonna break your heart.”

Her smile is small, simple. But he’s never seen anything more beautiful to him. “I promise not to break your heart.”

-tbc-


	2. 15 months in

It happens very quickly, and that’s entirely the issue.

It’s late, and she sent Chris home early. It was a slow day, a Wednesday, so there’s not much to do closing-up wise. She doesn’t even turn the OPEN sign to CLOSED as she sifts through the register.

The bell above the door jingles, and she doesn’t look up, calling, “Kitchen’s closed, there’s only the -“

The familiar click makes Lara Jean look up, straight into the barrel of a handgun.

“Gimme all your money,” the guy demands, from behind the black ski mask.

Lara Jean just looks at him – a slow, unassuming blink. Nothing more.

“Are you deaf? Gimme all your money!”

5’9”. At least 185 pounds. White or Hispanic under that ski mask. Inexperienced, from the way he’s holding that gun. Nervous.

“I would put that away, and walk out slowly, while you still can,” she says, returning to counting the change and sliding it into a paper money roll. Twenty-five, fifty, seventy-five, three dollars . . . twenty-fie, fifty, seventy-fi . . .

“Bitch,” the guy snaps. “I said give me -“ His hand shakes. “Your -“ The finger on the trigger moves, just a fraction. “Mon -“

Lara Jean twists the paper shut. And then flings the roll of coins straight into the robber’s face, against his nose.

He yelps. She grabs his wrist and pulls him forward – his sternum hits the edge of the marble, his arm across the counter, and she brings the flat of her left palm down against his exposed forearm. The bone breaks - he screams – and in his agony, he drops the gun – but it dangles from his trigger finger. She disentangles it from his useless grip, twirls it in her own hand, and aims it at his blubbering head, still holding onto his wrist.

“I didn’t break your legs, so you can still get out,” she says, even. “Don’t come back here.”

The guy nods, gulping back tears – she releases him and watches as he staggers away. The bell rings pleasantly – the door slams. Lara Jean uncocks the gun and slides it into the waistband of her jeans, against the small of her back. She retrieves the roll of coins and goes back to counting, as calm as if an ordinary customer had just departed her shop.

It doesn’t hit her until she’s in the subway, headed for home. The car is nearly empty, and the sway and flashing lights make her blink with queasiness.

_I could’ve killed him._ Easily, without a second thought. She hasn’t gotten into a fight in – well, in over a year. One of the reasons she left the Company was to stop all this violence. And what just happened was so . . . instinctive.

It makes her sick.

At her stop, she walks slowly up the steps – opens her purse. She bypasses her regular cellphone for the burner. The last message from Peter was from three weeks ago. _Gone for a few._ She’d gotten his usual postcard a few days later, a shot of Trinity College in Ireland. He’d written his usual note, a generic message that could’ve come from anybody, and unsigned – _Wish you were here._ But, just as it has been for over a year now, it was his way of telling her he’d arrived, he was safe. No texts from the burner, though, means that he’s still out there, working. And hopefully safe, and well.

She bites her lip, and stops in the middle of the sidewalk, considering. She’s never texted him while he’s been out in the field before. For one thing, she’s 99.9% certain he’d leave his burner cell at his apartment in D.C. It’s safer that way. But now, a pit of distress is eating at her stomach, a slow-broiling despair, that makes her realize – _I need my boyfriend._

Who just happens to be an international assassin and is away on a mission.

Such is her weird, crazy, life as recently-ish retired international assassin and current bakery owner.

Oh, her head hurts.

So once she’s settled in bed, in her softest pajamas and her most expensive Korean face mask, she types in a text:

_I know you’re not around right now but I miss you._

Half an hour later she’s buzzed out of her sleep. Groggy, she unlocks the burner phone.

_Everything ok?_

_No,_ she admits, but then quickly adds, because she doesn’t want to concern him, _But I’m fine, so don’t worry._ Then she worries her lip between her teeth. _I didn’t think you’d answer. I thought you kept the burner at home._

_I started bringing it when I have a home base while I’m away. Just in case. It’s safe. You really ok?_

_Yes._ She nods for emphasis even though he can’t see her. It’s a half-truth. She’ll get there. _Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon._

He sends her a winky face emoji. She shuts off the phone and curls onto her side and goes back to sleep – not totally at ease, but at least no longer rattled. Calmer.

She still flinches, though, when she walks through the door to the shop the next morning. “Sorry I’m late,” she tells Chris, as she slides behind the counter. “Thank you.”

“No problem,” Chris says, in the middle of packing up an order for the first customer in line. “Everything fine?”

“Yeah, just overslept,” Lara Jean says, sliding on gloves and smiling at the next client. “Good morning . . .”

The next hour is the typical non-stop breakfast whirlwind. She barely has time to think. But then Kitty shows up – just as the lull between breakfast and lunch hits, as usual, and so Lara Jean can finally sit down on one of the stools in front of the counter and sighs. “You know, it might be a tad more helpful for you to show up during breakfast service,” she says, re-doing her ponytail.

Kitty, munching on a chocolate chip cookie filched from the stand, shrugs. “Sorry. I had _the worst_ time researching this paper – ”

Lara Jean waves her off. Ever since she graduated college and came up to New York to complete her PhD, Kitty’s been pretty unreliable. She can’t actually fault her, since it’s for good reason. But it still somewhat grates, the familiar pang of being the older sister. So instead, Lara Jean glances around the shop. “I guess the last order never showed?” she asks, nodding at the brown paper bag sitting on the back counter, where they keep their “to go” orders.

Chris, in the middle of loading up the display case with fresh croissants, glances up as the doorbell jingles. “No, he’s here,” she says, nodding towards the door.

“Ah.” Lara Jean stands up and heads to the counter, without looking behind her. “What’s your name, mister . . .?” She picks up the brown paper and peers at the name on the ticket.

“John Ambrose McClaren.”

Lara Jean drops the paper bag back on the counter. She turns around, inch by agonizing inch, because this has got to be some mistake. Some awful, terrible mistake. The what-did-I-do-to-deserve-this kind of mistake.

(Besides. You know. Assassinate people for a paycheck.)

But no. It’s John Ambrose. Her John Ambrose. Who asked her to marry him just a few years ago. Who she had to turn down, because the Company forced her to.

It takes his handsome, sweet face – once, so very dear and familiar to her – a half-beat to register who he’s looking at. His brows dip, like he’s puzzling it out, and she thinks, _Oh god, what is he going to do? What is he going to say?_ She’d left his apartment, shattered by the heartbreak on his face, and left Boston right away for another mission. They haven’t spoken in years.

“ . . . Hey, Laura Jane,” he says, and she wants to die all over again, because she’d almost forgotten – she _did_ forget. She’d told him her name was Laura Jane, she told him she was an ordinary grad student. She told him all sorts of lies, because she was undercover and on the job.

And then she had to leave.

The only thing she can think to say is, “I told you, it’s LJ,” because that’s what she always used to say to him. She’d said it was because she didn’t like she had two names. Another lie. She just didn’t like that he didn’t even know her real name.

John Ambrose ducks his head a little. “Sorry, forgot,” he says, abashed, but still smiling that lovely sweet smile. Which she doesn’t understand, because shouldn’t he be mad at her? Shouldn’t he hate her?

“So . . .” Chris says, breaking the moment. “I’m . . . just gonna . . . not be a third wheel. Do the dishes.” She sidles past Lara Jean and pats her shoulder. “You’re gonna tell me _everything_.”

Kitty stays put, peering at them both through her glasses behind a half-eaten cookie. “What?”

Chris dashes back, grabs her by the arm, and hauls her behind the double doors.

John Ambrose rocks back and forth on his heels. “Um . . . maybe I should – ” He pulls out his wallet and walks over to the counter.

“Oh, uh, no, no, I couldn’t,” Lara Jean says quickly. “It’s on the house.”

“The owner doesn’t mind?”

“No, I don’t mind at all,” she says, smiling proudly, as she hands him the paper bag.

He gives her a long, measuring look that makes her face heat. “Wow. I can’t believe it. I mean, you always talked about it but – ”

“Yeah. Yeah I know,” she says. “It’s been a whirlwind, but it’s been great.”

“Congratulations.” He smiles, and her heart skips. “Putting your masters in poli sci to good use.”

Her mouth twitches with the effort to keep smiling, even as her heart nosedives sickeningly into her stomach. Right. She’d told him she was working on that. He never knew she was in those classes to recon her fellow students, whom the Company suspected of running drugs.

“Oh – I didn’t mean that – you know,” he fumbles, misreading her reaction. “Just that – New York customers, they can be really mean, so obviously having a background in poli sci would come in handy dealing with – ”

Despite herself, she laughs. “No, no, it’s okay. I guess life throws you curveballs, right?”

His mouth screws up, like he’s thinking, and the familiarity of it makes her blush even harder. “Yeah. I’d say,” he replies, with a soft smile, and she worries the corner of her lip with her teeth, because – Why? Why is he being so . . . _nice_ to her? After all that happened. She doesn’t deserve it – his kindness.

And that’s when she realizes –

_Oh, shit._

*

“ . . . And I told him that I wasn’t ready to be engaged, that a long engagement wouldn’t have mattered anyway, I didn’t want to be tied down, and . . . and then I left,” Lara Jean mumbles, hiding her eyes behind her hands, as if to block out the memory.

Chris nods, chewing on a snickerdoodle that Lara Jean spontaneously decided to make after John Ambrose left. “Deep.”

“I can’t believe you never told me, your own sister, that you were engaged,” Kitty snits. “Did Dad know? Did Margot? Did you tell Margot without telling me?”

Lara Jean glares.

Chris picks up her soda and slurps loudly through her straw. “Why’d he call you Laura Jane?”

Damn. She’d been hoping Chris hadn’t noticed. “You misheard,” she says, removing her hands. Beside Chris, Kitty raises a brow, but miraculously doesn’t comment.

Chris slurps again, rattling the leftover ice. “So you gonna tell Salted Caramel?”

“Who?” Lara Jean and Kitty ask at the same time.

“Tall, dark, mysterious? Shows up once in a while? Always orders a salted caramel cupcake?” Lara Jean deliberately keeps her face as blank as possible. Kitty just looks even more confused. “LJ, you two are totally banging.”

“Are not.” She thought they were being discrete. They _were_ being discrete! Although . . . ever since the rookies gave up surveilling them, they _have_ been a little less careful.

“What?!” Kitty exclaims. “You have a boyfriend and you didn’t tell me?! Does Margot know?” She whips out her cellphone. “I’m calling Margot.”

Lara Jean swiftly grabs it from her sister’s hand. “Margot doesn’t know because there’s nothing to tell! I have no idea what Chris is talking about. He’s just another customer.”

Chris chuckles as she polishes off her snickerdoodle, sending cookie crumbs everywhere. “Okay. So, I guess you’re not telling Salted Caramel about Peanut Butter. Good for you.”

“Peanut Butter?”

This time, Kitty seems to know. “Number 3.” She points at the chalkboard hanging over the back wall, above the display case. Peanut butter chocolate cupcake. Topped with chocolate chips. “That’s what your John Ambrose McClaren always orders when he’s not getting breakfast.”

. . . Those were the cupcakes she brought to the Halloween party, all those years ago. She’d been wandering around, surveilling the attendees, dressed up as a French chambermaid and carrying a plate of cupcakes when she heard someone playing the piano and found a handsome “doctor” basically composing a beautiful song by himself.

(It turned out, he really _was_ studying to be a doctor. “I know, not a very original costume,” he’d said, his smile soft and self-deprecating. “But I _kinda_ hate these things. Maybe I’m lame.” She’d pulled at the edge of her costume and grinned. “But lame in a cool way.” “Totally lame in a cool way,” he’d grinned back, and it wasn’t very long after that Lara Jean knew she was in serious trouble when it came to John Ambrose McClaren.)

Kitty peers at Lara Jean, eyes sharp behind her glasses. “Are you meeting him again?”

The bell jingles. Grateful, Lara Jean pushes off the back counter and smiles at the new customer. “Welcome to Ingrid + Humphrey,” she says, pleasantly, ignoring Chris’ laughter and Kitty’s derisive snort. “How can I help you?”

*

It’s a nightmare. Lara Jean knows it’s a nightmare. Even so, when the robber levels the gun at her in the bake shop, she does what comes naturally to her – and shoots him in the chest.

Her eyes pop open, and her entire body jerks, almost as if she were shot herself. She even rubs her own chest, palm pressed flat against the rapid beat of her heart.

Beside her, the sheets rustle. Relieved, she cuddles closer. He must’ve come in late and slipped in – he’s done that, before. “You’re back,” she murmurs, sleepily.

“I’m back.” Peter pulls her closer, for a proper hug. It quickly leads to a kiss – long, languorous, and sleepy – and then another. “Didn’t wanna wake you.”

“That’s okay.”

He presses closer, and she opens her eyes. In the darkness, she can’t see his face. But she can feel the bandage on the side of his head.

“What happened?” she gasps, sitting up.

He makes a scoffing sound, as he flops down on the bed. “Don’t – ”

“Peter!”

“ – freak out.”

“ _Peter_.”

“It’s just a few stitches.”

“You said it was safe!” she exclaims.

“I never said that.”

Now it’s her turn to scoff. “The burner? You brought it because you had a home base.”

Now that her eyes have adjusted she can see him roll his. “I only meant the burner was safe.”

“So, _you_ weren’t.”

“ _Covey._ ” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Can we not fight about this?”

She pulls her legs into her chest, rests her chin on her knees. Usually, when he comes back, she’s so happy her heart seems to soar straight into the sky, keeping her floating for all the days he’s with her, until he has to go again. This feeling of unease is not new to her – like she said, she’s always going to be worried about him, for him, despite being all too aware of the risks – but fighting like this _is._

After a while, she feels his hand on the small of her back, fingers lightly tracing the ridges of her spine through the thin cotton of her tank top. She doesn’t pull away when he sits up next to her – instead, she leans in and sets her forehead against his temple, the one without the bandage. There’s so much she wants to say to him, to tell him – about how worried she is, yes, and that’ll never change – that she’s mad at him, she’s not sure what for yet, just that she’s _mad_ – about what happened with the robber. About John Ambrose. But it all just seems so much – and she doesn’t want to worry _him_ , when he’s already done so much for her. Too much.

So instead, she pulls at his hand. “Come on,” she murmurs, and lies back down. He sets his head on her chest, and she bites her lip, now able to see the bandage clearly – the bit of dark red seeping through at the center. With her nails, she scrapes the space between his shoulder blades, his bicep. Memorizes the pattern of gooseflesh, the slow rhythm of his breath, trailing towards slumber again.

But then all of a sudden, he murmurs, “Hey. What was your text about?”

“Text?”

He pushes up on his elbows to look at her, concerned. But no – no, she won’t spoil their reunion. “Nothing,” she says, threading her fingers through his hair to pull him up to her. He obliges, and she mumbles back, “Everything’s fine.” And then she kisses him, deeply. As hard as she can, as much as she can, until he’s pushing off her underwear, and she can do nothing but swallow his moans with hers, swallow all her worries down, away, for the moment.

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many apologies for the delay. I've been dealing with work, then with everything that's been happening lately, now I'm homeschooling my kids. Hope everybody stays safe and healthy, and thank you for your patience. <3


	3. 16 months in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some of LJ and Peter's conversation is taken from the P.S. I Still Love You movie (specifically, the locker/hallway scene)

Something’s wrong.

He can’t tell exactly _what_ is wrong. Just that something is. For one thing, whenever Covey comes back from the bakery, she does that frowny-face thing. It’s only a second – a miniscule narrowing of her features, like she’s about to bite her lip but stops herself from doing it – and it disappears when he kisses her hello and asks about her day. But he definitely sees how her eyes flick to the bandage on the side of his head.

Peter doesn’t complain, though. He doesn’t have the energy to fight about it, to go around in circles. She knows it’s dangerous. He knows it’s dangerous. It is what it is.

And he quite literally _doesn’t have the energy_ for it. He’s exhausted. If it’s too bright outside his head throbs. The medics told him minimal screen time. So he sleeps most of the day away and tries to stay off his laptop and the television, and pretends to have just dropped a book onto the coffee table or locked his phone the second he hears her key in the lock. 

So, yeah, she might be slightly justified in worrying, but . . . she’s just gonna have to deal. And so is he.

But apparently, her way of dealing involves baking excessive amounts of snickerdoodles at home. The baking in and of itself isn’t unusual – she’s always whipping up something new, to test out on him, before she debuts it at the shop. But the past few weeks it’s been snickerdoodles. He’s getting a little tired of the snickerdoodles.

“I think you’ve got this recipe down cold,” he says, when she sets the plate of cookies on the edge of the bathtub.

“Mmm?” she asks, slipping off her bathrobe and into the hot water.

He takes a cookie and holds it up in the air. “It’s pretty good. Perfect, even. Why do you keep making them?”

Lara Jean finishes tying a scrunchie around the loose bun on top of her head, and shrugs. “Just got a lot on my mind.” Water sloshes as she sits down and leans her back against his chest. He dips a kiss in the hollow of where her throat meets her shoulder and puts his arms around her. “It’s just – I uh . . . ran into an old friend the other day.”

“Friend as in . . . Company friend, or friend as in actual friend?” There’s something in the tone of her voice that he doesn’t sit well with him - the hesitancy.

She sinks deeper into the water, plays with his fingers. “Kinda both,” she admits, after a moment. “Um. You remember . . . the civvie I was with, the one in my file? He came to the shop.”

“Really? Wow.”

“Turns out he’s a surgeon at Presbyterian. He’s been coming to the shop for a few months now, just never when I was in.”

“Huh.” He’s not really sure what to say. In normal circumstances, running into an old ex could be awkward. But they’re not living in normal circumstances. “So, are you seeing him again?”

“I guess I am.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a regular customer, and we were involved – ”

“So, what are you … asking for my permission or something?”

“No, I just thought it’d be strange if I didn’t tell you.”

He gives her a playful few smooches by the ear, until she bats him away. “So was this why you texted me?”

Lara Jean turns around, water quietly lapping against the sides of the tub. She winds her arms around his neck – the press of her body, soft and wet, against his, makes him close his eyes. “No,” she whispers, along the line of his throat. “I just . . . just missed you.”

*

He gets the call a week later, which pisses him off because he’d been hoping for at least another two or even three weeks of down time. But a call is a call, and he’s got another two and a half years of this. So he’s got to go.

And Peter ignores the way Lara Jean’s eyes flick dart to his temple, where the scar is still healing – how her face seems to pinch, just so. He just gives her an easy smile and kisses her cheek before he hoists his overnight bag over his shoulder. He hooks his index finger on the chain of her necklace – lifts the locket a bit, before settling it again her collarbone. “See you soon.”

“You’d better,” she whispers, drawing her robe closer to her. She brushes some hair off his forehead and smiles, wan.

He can’t really sleep on the train ride back to DC. Tries watching some Netflix on his tablet and gives up. As annoyed as he is having to go down, he keeps wondering – not about how much longer this is going to take, but what he’s going to do when it finally _does_ happen. He doesn’t know his way around a kitchen, except to make the bare minimum to feed himself. What would he even do? Loaf around the couch like he did this past month?

He’s in a foul mood by the time he gets back to his apartment, showers, and heads to the office – made in even fouler by the fact that Boss’s secretary, Velma, keeps him in the waiting room for over half an hour. He’s jiggling his leg, drinking the bad coffee Velma proferred him, when Boss’s voice barks over the intercom, “Send him in.”

Peter rolls his eyes. He tosses his empty cup into the trash bin and saunters inside.

“Ah! Peter, so good of you to come,” Boss says, waving at a seat in front of his massive desk.

He shakes his head and stuffs his hands in his pockets. “So, where to, next?” he asks. The faster he can get this done, the better.

Boss hands him a Company-issued tablet. “I think you’d better sit down for this,” he says, grimly.

Peter just lifts his brows and unlocks the tablet. “Ah, shit,” he says, when he sees Genevieve’s mugshot come up on the screen. Underneath her picture is the red stamp:

FUGITIVE

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this is dragging. Unfortunately I can't promise that I'll update any quicker. I hope everybody is doing ok and keeping safe and healthy. <3


	4. A week later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for your patience, all. <3 Hope everyone is staying safe and healthy and sane.

Okay, so, _yes_ , she should’ve told Peter about what happened at the bakery with the robber. But, in all honesty, Lara Jean’s not sure he would’ve understood. He likes what he does – has always liked it. Before the explosion in Oregon, he was going to tell her he couldn’t retire with her. And at the time, she understood that, knew it, because fundamentally – Peter Kavinsky was – _is_ – at his core, an agent of the Company, through and through.

How could she explain how awful she felt, in the aftermath? How _clear_ it was – what she needed to do – how to do it – and it all didn’t even occur to her until later what just happened? How _that_ was the problem. How, over a year later, she’s still, at her core – an agent of the Company.

And how much she hates that.

But then he goes, off on yet another op – even though she can tell his head is still bothering him, that he needs more rest. And she can’t tell him to stay, because she’s the one who put him in this position in the first place – it’s all her fault – and he’ll get annoyed if she starts in again . . . so she presses her lips together, suppresses the urge to grab him tight around the stomach and never let go, and keeps quiet.

And then the apartment is quiet and empty again, so strangely large and hollow in his absence, and every time her cell phone buzzes she looks up, hoping it’s the burner, only to feel the disappointment sliding around in her belly when she realizes it’s just her normal phone, and it’s Chris or a vendor or a client calling about the shop. So she buries herself in trying new recipes, and throws herself in the various weddings and baby and bridal showers and birthdays with renewed energy. Anything to make her forget he’s gone, she’s here, and there’s that lingering echo of what happened near midnight that just won’t go away.

It’s why, she supposes, she accepts the NY Presbyterian job with only minimal hesitation on her part. After all, it’s a nurse appreciation day party. What are the chances of running into John Ambrose then? He’s a doctor. He should be off doing doctor-y things.

“You’re the owner, you don’t _have_ to set up,” Kitty points out, watching with crossed arms as Lara Jean packs away the final batch of cupcakes into the back of the van. “When’s the last time you made a delivery?”

“Well, I just want to make sure the displays are just right,” she says, as Kitty hands her the last case.

“Peanut butter chocolate,” Kitty muses, eyebrow arched. “So . . . when do I get to meet Salted Caramel?”

Lara Jean rolls her eyes and shuts the back of the van. She doesn’t get why Kitty is so interested. Her little sister doesn’t remember Peter from back in their D.C. apartment dwelling days – and she’s pretty certain Peter’s never been into the shop the same time as Kitty’s shift. Either one of them would’ve mentioned, and they haven’t.

“You don’t, because there’s nothing going on,” she says. The less people who know about Peter, the better. The safer. For everyone. “He’s just a customer. He likes to flirt. That’s it.”

“You don’t flirt,” Kitty says, eyes narrowed behind her glasses.

“I flirt,” she replies.

“Inadequately,” her sister says, flouncing back into the shop.

Lara Jean rolls her eyes again and climbs into the driver’s seat of the van. As she pulls out of the alley and into traffic, she frowns, spotting someone in the crowd. Funny. She could’ve sworn that was . . .

_Trev?_

She shakes her head. At the stoplight she opens the window and looks back, searching. She could’ve sworn she saw Trevor Pike. But why would the head of surveillance and extraction be here? The Company hasn’t sent an agent to tail her in a year. Much less an agent of Trevor’s caliber.

_Seeing things,_ she thinks. The light turns green, and she heads towards the hospital.

*

She almost makes her getaway. The function room is all set up and decorated. She just has to put up the fancy tiered stands and arrange the cupcakes just so. She’s especially proud of the vanilla and chocolate ones, sprinkled with hand-crafted sugared stethoscopes.

“These are nice,” John Ambrose says, coming up next to her from behind.

Lara Jean nearly drops the cupcake she’s holding. _Maybe I_ am _getting soft,_ she thinks. Just over a year ago, no one would’ve been able to sneak up behind her without getting a knife in the side of their neck. But then again, she didn’t drop the cupcake – she knows it looks like she just smoothly set it aside without a hitch. “I tried doing pink and blue scrubs, but they came out looking like regular shirts, or something you’d have for a baby shower,” she says. “Um, thanks for the order. We appreciate the business.”

John Ambrose shrugs, his hands stuffed in his white coat. “Well, it seemed like the perfect choice,” he says. “Great cupcakes, close by . . .” He hesitates, and then says, “Look, LJ, I just wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” she asks, genuinely confused.

He gestures vaguely at the door. “Oh, you know, ambushing you at the shop. And uh, leaving so quickly. I didn’t . . .”

“Actually have a patient coding?” Lara Jean fills in, smiling weakly. “It’s fine. Believe me, I totally get it. I’m just sorry I – ” She stops, wondering how to word it. Lied about who she was? Accidentally fell in love with him? Broke their engagement, and his heart, when all she wanted to do was stay there, with him? “I’m just really sorry,” she finally says, looking down at her feet. “I hope you can forgive me.”

After a moment, he says, quietly, “I just hope we can be friends, now?”

She looks up, gratitude coursing through her. That’s what made her fall in love with him, in the first place – his innate goodness, his ability to be kind and have grace even for the people who don’t deserve it. She’d spent her early twenties witnessing, first hand, how awful people could be in her line of “work,” and meeting John Ambrose McClaren had been her sunrise, her ray of hope. She’ll always be grateful to him. For him.

“I’d really like that,” she says, as he grins. The door suddenly opens – some nurses are coming in, chattering excitedly. She smiles back at him, and nods towards a table. He follows her lead. “So, what have you been up to?”

*

By the time Lara Jean closes up the shop, it’s nearly 1 am. Peter waits by the lamppost, back to the storefront, until he hears the familiar tread of her steps – almost like a dancer in their light steadiness – but she passes him by, not paying attention. Despite the current situation, he smirks and sneaks up behind her, reaching for her elbow.

And nearly gets said elbow in the face for his trouble. Peter blocks her easily, laughing as he hooks her arm behind her back. “Hey, there, Covey,” he says, kissing her cheek from behind before releasing her. She half-glares, half-grins up at him. “Who says retirement makes you soft?”

The smile on her face fades so abruptly he feels his own drop. “What?”

“Nothing,” she says, smiling again, but with effort. She tugs at his arm, drapes it over her shoulders – but keeps her fingers linked with his. They start walking down the street towards the subway. Peter checks the shadows out, but sees nothing. “So, what are you doing back so soon? This was in record time. You’ve never been away for barely a week.” She smiles sweetly up at him. “Not that I’m complaining!”

“Yeah. Um. That was just for prep. I’m heading out for real tonight. Needed to stop by.”

Her brows dip. “ . . . What’s happened?”

“Nothing to worry about,” he says, smoothly. “Just – we got word – there’s been a revenge hit ordered.”

Against his side, Lara Jean stiffens slightly. “Me?” He nods. “Well, that’s happened before,” she says, calmly enough. They start down the subway stairs. Lara Jean swipes her MetroCard – Peter hops the turnstile. “Who is it? The Jopok? The Shulaya?”

Peter checks down the gaping black tunnel. He can see the lights coming. “Not sure,” he fibs. He lets go of her, watches her nibble her bottom lip in consternation. “Hey. It’ll be okay.”

She looks up at him, contemplating. “Is that why Trevor was tailing me yesterday?”

He shouldn’t be that surprised Covey managed to make Trevor, but he covers it easily enough. “Pike? Nah. Don’t be so arrogant, Covey. Your case is small potatoes. You’re just getting a minor security detail – do me a favor and _pretend_ not to notice them, ‘kay? Does wonders for their confidence, these rooks. Anyway, the strike force will have it all taken care of in no time flat."

“ . . . So you’re not leading the counterstrike? So you’re leaving on a separate op?”

The rush of the train starts kicking up her hair, making it fly all over. He leans in closer, and over the rattle and roar, lies, “Yeah. Something different. Just wanted to check on my girl before I go.’

She nods, brows still knitted in thought. The train blurs by, and the brakes shriek. When the doors open, she steps inside, but he stays on the platform, still holding onto her hand. “Stay safe,” she calls, before her fingers slip away.

“You too,” he says, and then the doors close, and the train lurches forward and away.

Peter watches Lara Jean through the window – smiles at her, encouraging, when she gives him a small, little wave – he walks alongside the train and waves back, until he can’t keep up anymore. He gets a final glimpse of her sitting down, alone, in the car. Then the train disappears into the tunnel, and he keeps watching until the lights fade away, until the clatter and thunder dies off into rumbling echoes.

He doesn’t turn when he hears the footsteps stop beside him, still feeling like shit for having to lie to her.

“You know, Kavinsky,” Trevor says, idly, “I really hate it when you make me clean up your messes.”

Peter digs his hands into his jacket pockets, scuffs the floor with his shoe. “Yeah, well, thanks for looking the other way,” he admits. If the Company knew he’d stopped to warn Covey – that they are even seeing each other – he doesn’t want to think about those consequences. Trevor’s good – solid. He did him a huge favor, taking the first watch just so he could sneak back and see Lara Jean one last time. “Just be careful. She thinks she spotted you yesterday.”

“I've got another agent anyway,” Trevor says, as they head up the stairs. “Don’t worry,” he says, quickly, when he notices Peter’s questioning glare. “She’s got ten years of field experience. Impeccable record. LJ won’t even know she’s there. Need a ride to JFK?”

“Thanks.” As they make their way to the car, he says, “So all good yesterday?”

“Yeah. Lost her a bit on the way to the hospital. You know, for someone who was only rated a 6 on stealth she’s surprisingly – ”

“Hospital?” Peter says, not really paying attention, as he buckles in.

“Yeah, she was making a delivery.”

Something’s twigging, he’s not sure what. “Delivery?” When’s the last time she made a personal delivery? “Which hospital?”

Trevor starts the car and pulls onto the road. “Uh – Presbyterian.”

“. . . Huh.”

-tbc-


	5. 17 months in

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> is anyone still reading this? i'm so sorry. :(

It has happened before - being the target of a revenge hit. It’s not uncommon, and it has happened to her - the prodigal son of some corrupt politician she can’t even remember the name of had come calling, back when she first started at the Company. He’d been very easy to dispense with, when all was said and done.

But for this particular situation, Lara Jean can’t honestly think of who it could possibly be - except for one person. Throughout her career, was known for her clean kills - no trace of who or what might’ve caused the deaths of her targets. It would, after all, explain why Peter lied to her.

Oh, she can’t prove Peter lied. Just a gut feeling. The way his eyes shifted. How his smile felt like he wasn’t trying to reassure her, but himself. And why else would he come all the way to New York? Just to check in before “another” mission? He’s a big softie under all that bravado but he’s also a pragmatist. There is no other mission, is there?

So, yes. She’s pretty convinced it all has something to do with Genevieve.

She just can’t prove it. All public records on Genevieve Blake stopped the day they apprehended her and the Company took her into custody. She knows Gen was sent to some sort of secure Company facility, where she has been receiving therapy, but other than that ... Lara Jean no longer has access to the Company’s records, it’s system. All her codes would’ve been scrubbed. And her only point of contact, her very own boyfriend, can’t - or won’t - tell her.

So there’s nothing to do but go back to her apartment and pretend everything is okay, everything is all right. Normal. She even pretends to not spot the agent tailing her - a pretty ponytailed blonde pretending to be a co-ed studying at the bakery. And then she gets angry. Pissed, even. Because she thought she did the right thing, back at the ski lodge - tried to show understanding, compassion. A little bit of grace. And what has it gotten her, in return?

Looking over her shoulder, in a life she used to dream of living, when she should be looking forward.

So Lara Jean does do one thing.

“Hey,” she says, when the call goes straight to voicemail. “I hate to ask you this. I’m not even sure this number still works. But - I’m sure you know what’s really going on. You always seem to.

“I need some help. I had to return my stash. I can get some stuff on my own. But I need some ... key components. If you can send them ... and if you can’t, I understand.”

She hangs up without saying anything more.

The package comes three days later, the label from a clothing store. When she opens it up there’s no packing slip, but there’s a note:

_Heavy is the crown. You know I’ve always got you covered - L_

She smiles, and digs through the brown packing paper. At the bottom is a shoebox, which she carefully lifts out and opens, revealing 50 or so tiny unlabeled vials.

It doesn’t matter that they’re unlabeled. She’s got them memorized, committed to heart. She sets it on her dresser and gets to work, frowning and squinting and muttering to herself as mixes the right dosages. When she’s done, she starts dipping her barrettes and hairpins in her various mixtures.

Unconsciousness. Spontaneous paralysis. Blood clot. Heart attack. Aneurysm ...

*

It finally happens a few weeks later - early morning. Late night. Whatever you want to call it. John Ambrose has been on a run of night shifts, and sometimes he’ll come to the bakery before it opens, during breakfast prep. He’ll knock on the front door and Lara Jean will let him in, with the first batch of fluffy buttery bacon and egg croissants waiting and ready. She’ll pour him a cup of coffee and as he wolfs down what’s technically his dinner, she’ll buzz around the shop getting everything done for the morning rush, as they chatter about each other’s days/nights. Two weeks ago, he brought her a copy of _Chamber of Secrets,_ after being appalled that she started the Harry Potter series in college but didn’t progress beyond first book. She’d told him life got busy. She just left out the part where she was busy assassinating international criminals.

They’ve since started an informal book club, of sorts. It’s nice to escape into some fantasy land, where kids can play with magic and things don’t seem _that_ high-stakes – because, the characters are children, and there’s witches and wizards. It’s nice to discuss their problems, instead of her own. Their own.

Lara Jean doesn’t think too much of it, or at the very least, tries not to. She does breakfast prep, even though she doesn’t have to - there’s Chris, and Chris needs the hours, and Chris used to do it all the time, too. Lara Jean just needs a distraction. And what better distraction than good conversation with a ... a friend?

“I swear to god, do you put magic dust in this stuff?” John Ambrose asks as he polishes off the breakfast croissant.

She snorts and slides in a tray of cupcakes into the display case. “You’re just saying that because you’re starving from a long night shift.”

“Yeah ... a little.” She throws the dish towel at him, which he catches easily.

She laughs, then slides _Prisoner of Azkaban_ across the counter to him. “Speaking of magic . . . The best one so far. I heard the next one the shit hits the fan, though, right? Where is it?”

John Ambrose hesitates. “About that ... um - looks like I’m going back to days soon.”

“What? Really?” Lara Jean says, shocked.

“Yeah. In a few weeks.”

“Oh.” Her face heats and she turns towards the back counter, trying to gather her thoughts. It’s suddenly all very whirly and confusing. “Um - that’s nice - I guess ...”

After a moment, she hears John Ambrose clear his throat. “I’ll – um, I need to go to the restroom.”

“Okay, sure,” she murmurs, nodding rapidly. As soon as she hears the double doors swing open, then whoosh shut, she almost deflates. _What are you_ doing _LJ?_ She’s with Peter. John Ambrose is still engaged . . . at least, as far as she knows. She’s never had the heart to ask.

And . . . and there’s Peter. Who’s not here. Who hasn’t called, or texted. And she knows _why,_ it’s because _he literally can’t_ , and what used to bother her only slightly, just a little bit, is beginning to not be so slight, so little, anymore.

She sighs and turns back to the front counter to clean up. Two bright flashes flare through the window – followed by the muted puncture sounds of a silencer. Alarmed, Lara Jean sees the two homeless people loitering across the street collapse in a heap – and a tall shadow striding rapidly towards the front door of the shop.

Not two homeless people. Her guard, and the relief . . .

_Ambush . . . Fuck_.

Lara Jean turns – grabs a butcher knife from the back counter – falls flat to the floor just as the door opens and the bell tinkles. The bullet ricochets off the backsplash, splintering the expensive marble – something shatters. Bits of china rains down on her hair.

_Shit_. Does she remember? _Can_ she remember - ?

Footsteps approach cautiously, combat boots cracking on porcelain and glass. Absurdly, she thinks, _All my dishes_ , and then she mentally slaps herself and rolls to her feet, on her haunches. She brushes her hair out of her eyes with bloodied hands – her fingers catch in her hairpin, and she pulls it out. Starbursts and daisies, smeared with red.

A tip of a combat boot appears at the end of the counter.

Lara Jean flips the butcher knife and slashes at the man’s ankles. He yells, and she lunges upwards, pushing his arm up. He fires repeatedly, sending an arc of bullets up into the ceiling – with all her strength, she elbows him in the ribcage, but he holds onto the gun. Using her momentum, they stumble backwards, towards the front door, and into the chairs and tables.

He drops the gun, it scatters somewhere – Lara Jean can’t tell where, because she brings the knife up again, swiping and kicking and whirling and dodging. Every part of her body is screaming, because she hasn’t done this in a long time, she hasn’t kept up with her training, and this isn’t some random street punk who can barely hold a gun – the way he fights, he’s obviously former military –

And then he kicks out, nailing her in the stomach. All her breath leaves her in a painful rush of air, and she doubles over briefly before he punches her in the face.

Lara Jean collapses on the floor – the knife drops, too. Coughing, her vision swimming, she struggles to sit up, cutting her palms on the broken plates and glass.

_I didn’t remember . . . I didn’t remember._

A hand closes in on her throat – the fingers dig into her skin, and she closes her eyes, trying to breathe through the pain.

_Mom – Mommy – Dad, I’m sorry –_ _tell Kitty and Gogo that I –_

And then suddenly there’s a rush of air, the pressure around her throat is gone, and Lara Jean falls onto her butt, coughing and spluttering. John Ambrose and the assassin are struggling on the ground, trying to get the gun.

_John!_ She stumbles to her feet, realizes she’s still holding onto her hairpin – runs over – and in an almost slow slide, slices the pointy ends against his cheek.

Blood spatters onto John Ambrose’s shocked face. The assassin hisses, clutching at the scratch – he trips off of John, and lunges for Lara Jean.

She takes one step back, hands laced together, and socks them into his stomach. He pitches forward and falls to the ground.

Lara Jean watches him twitch, the poison working through his system. She’s vaguely aware of John Ambrose getting to his feet behind her. As his body spasms one last time, she looks up and surveys the damage to the shop. The display case is in pieces – so is the backsplash. A chunk of the marble countertop is gone. _My dishes._ She’d bought them from various flea markets in the city, when she first got here and the bakeshop was still just coming together, bright pops of color and patterns now in cracked bits on the floor, splattered with glass from the display case, food, and all surrounding the body – now, mercifully, still.

_I remembered enough._

John Ambrose stoops by the body. He rolls him over and checks the pulse. Lara Jean catches the first few symbols of a Cyrillic tattoo on the neck. “What did you do?” he asks, standing. “What was that? You barely touched him.”

Lara Jean shakes her head, the shock of what just happened rapidly starting to ebb away. The lack of check-in from the dead guards will alert the Company. A team will be here soon.

And John Ambrose McClaren just saw everything.

“I don’t know of any chemical compound that could do that to a grown man in less than a minute – ” he’s saying now, practically babbling. “And you – you were fighting like – like a –“ There’s a cut on his eyebrow, bleeding down to the corner of his mouth. Lara Jean feels her face crumple, her heart clench tightly. _Oh my god. He could’ve died._ He’s an innocent in all of this, and he just saw everything – he just saw _her_ kill a man –

_And the Company is coming . . ._

He notices her expression. “LJ, are you okay?” he asks, cupping her face.

She grabs the hand on her cheek, holds onto his wrist. They’re both shaking. Finally, she swallows, past her heartbeat in her throat, and looks up at him.

“I will explain everything, but you need to go home. Don’t look back,” she says, her voice even and flat. “When you get there, leave me a voicemail. Let me know you’re safe. Don’t say your name.”

“What the hell is – ”

“In about half an hour, maybe less, a clean up crew will arrive to get rid of the evidence,” she says, voice rising. “If they see that a civilian witnessed what happened, I don’t know what they’ll do to you.”

“Civilian?! Me? Laura Jane – you just – you’re not making any sense – ”

“And last of all,” she says, as steadily as she can, “my real name isn’t Laura Jane Covington.”

*

“What the fuck do you _mean_ , the agent wasn’t there?” Peter hisses into his comm.

“I mean, there was a shift change, and – ” Trevor starts to say.

“You mean, your idiot team members can’t follow protocol, like a bunch of fucking incompetent rookies – ”

“ _Pete_. This guy was good. He neutralized the guards. LJ was lucky.”

Peter sighs and thumps the back of his head against the headrest. “Yeah, but why am I only hearing about this now?”

“ _I’m_ not the one in deep cover and who doesn’t answer his messages,” Trevor points out, distinctly pissed.

Peter shakes his head and stares out the windshield. The afternoon light is glaring hot, making him bake in the car and souring his mood even more. “Sorry,” he grumbles, finally. “It’s just frustrating.”

“Whatever, man.”

Peter changes the subject. “No witnesses?”

“None. She was alone. Easy clean-up.”

Peter nods, even though he knows Trevor can’t see him.

“How was Scotland? Never been.”

“Nothing. Neutralized the hitter but he didn’t say anything. Edinburgh branch is taking care of him. Nothing on the Virginia targets?”

“No. All quiet. Dr. Covey and his wife look safe and sound. Maybe the Edinburgh guy was going to go after them next.”

“Maybe.” It doesn’t sit well with him, though – the open-endedness of things. Like not knowing who ordered the hit.

Although he has an educated guess.

They sign off, and Peter reaches into the glove compartment and pulls out the burner. Nothing from Lara Jean, in the weeks that he’s been away. No mention of what happened. He had to find out from freaking Trevor – almost a week after it occurred. _What the hell, Covey._

Impulsively, even though he’s on a stakeout – even though he shouldn’t have the burner in his car – he calls her. It rings and rings and finally, she picks up. The sounds of heavy construction are going on in the background.

“I just heard,” he says, over the screech of a saw. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she says. “I’m fine. A little sore, but I’m fine. The Company just gave me – I guess it’s a standard debrief for former members. A little surreal.”

“What’s all that noise?”

“Sorry.” He hears her breathing, and the swing of maybe a door. The sounds become more quiet, although still present. “The shop took a beating. I’ve had to close to do repairs.”

Peter feels his stomach drop. “I’m sorry,” he says, sincerely. The shop was – _is_ – her baby. It was her reason for getting out of the Company in the first place. Her dream.

She pauses, and says, quietly, “It’s okay. It’s not important.”

Something tells him it is important, though. And he wants to ask her why didn’t she text – why didn’t she let him know sooner – but the way she’s being so quiet is making something prickle, worried and nagging, in his chest.

But then she says, plaintively, “Peter. Are you okay?”

“You know me,” he says, trying to be reassuring. “I’m always good.”

“Yeah, but . . .” She pauses again, and it seems like she’s doing that a lot – waiting. Thinking. About stuff that’s going on in that head of hers, that she won’t ever let him know about. And suddenly it feels like they’re even farther apart, besides the physical distance. “Peter. Where are you? This mission of yours – is it the same as – “

He wants to groan. “Covey, you know I can’t say.”

“ . . . Is it Gen? I just need to know, okay?”

“It’s a completely different thing,” he says.

“It’s just that – our covers were blown. She knows stuff about me. It was my last op. It just – it just makes sense, that it would be her – ”

A shadow passes in the distance, through the trees. Peter sits up straighter, pulls down his aviators. Sighted.

“Lara Jean, I gotta go,” he says, abruptly, before she can finish.

“Peter, wait – ”

“I’m on recon, I gotta go,” he says, and hangs up. He stuffs the burner into the glove compartment, and slides out of the car, stalking towards the baseball field.

The figure stops at the chain-link fence, arms crossed and watching the children play. Peter watches Genevieve as she rubs her upper arms and stares at one little figure in particular, getting ready to bat.

He pushes the tip of his hunting knife into the small of her back. “What are you even doing here, Gen?” he asks, lowly. “I know you’re pretty messed up. But trying to go and kill your own son . . .”

Gen turns slowly, confusion wrinkling her forehead. “I would never do that, Peter.”

Behind her, there’s the _clink!_ of aluminum and a raucous cheer from the bleachers. The boy runs for first base, and in his hurry, the helmet falls off. His coach jogs up to him with the helmet and ruffles the head of floppy, dark hair.

He looks just like Owen did, at that age.

Like Peter.

Peter’s jaw works. He has to know.

“Is he mine?”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those of you who are still reading this monstrosity, thank you. i apologize so much for the delay. would you believe both my husband, and then i, got covid-19? we're much better now, and we're fortunate we both didn't require hospitalization, and that our children did not experience any symptoms. thank you for your patience, even though i can't promise updates will come any quicker now. stay safe, everyone. <3


	6. Immediately After

“After the lodge, part of my escape plan was to come here,” Genevieve says, toneless, as they make their second circle around the baseball field. “Take Ryan and just go. Billy was gonna help.”

“Billy?” They stop just beyond the third baseline. Gen takes a sip of her coffee that Peter purchased from the park snack shack. His is lukewarm and awful. He swallows, remembering – “The guard from . . .?”

“Yeah.”

Lara Jean had killed him, at the lodge – with one of her poisons. Young kid. Bits of the mission from almost two years ago comes rushing back. Covey had found out from local gossips that Ted and Gen were cheating on each other, hadn’t she? At the time, they’d just added it to the intel report, and forgotten all about it.

“Billy’s brother Frank has connections with the Russian SVR. They managed to get me out. And so I came here, to get Ryan back.” She huffs out a bitter laugh. “I didn’t even get to name him, you know. Wasn’t something I would’ve picked.” She tosses her still full Styrofoam cup into the garbage.

Peter follows suit, then turns to look at the baseball game. The sides have switched – the kid is now playing in right field. “Still haven’t answered my question,” he says, tightly, before taking off his sunglasses to glare at her. The age lines up. Ryan is either his son, or –

“I don’t know,” Gen admits, and for what it’s worth, he believes her. “Yours, or Jeremy’s.”

Peter looks away, at the stands full of happy families. Back when they were still dating in college, he’d accused her of cheating on him with their TA. It was blow up fight after blow up fight, and she’d never admitted to it, even after he’d finally had enough and called it quits. She’d been devastated, but the relief that everything was finally over was almost overwhelming. Given everything that’s happened since then, confirmation that he’d been right all along feels less like vindication and a lot more like . . . nothing at all.

The crowd claps all of a sudden. Startled, they both turn – the game’s ended. Ryan runs off the field to a man and woman waiting by the chain-linked fence. Peter watches them chatter at each other, looking for any sign. He’s got dark hair and dark eyes but a lot of kids have dark hair and dark eyes . . . The man reaches over and playfully punches at Ryan’s shoulder – he darts away, laughing, to go talk with his coach and teammates.

“He’s got a family that loves him,” he says to her, and to himself. “Taking him away from that – it’s not fair to him.”

Gen huffs. “You’re such a dumbass, Peter,” she says. “I know that. I’m not here to take him away.”

“You just said – ”

“That was _before_ ,” she says, annoyed. They watch silently as the baseball team breaks away from their coach and goes back to the stands to their parents. “Therapy helped,” she says, quiet and low – and with a muted acceptance, “I’m only here to . . . to see.”

Peter watches Ryan and his family head to the parking lot. He’s got his bat slung over his shoulder as he chatters with his father. “And the hit?”

“The hit?”

“Gen.” He tears his gaze away to glare at her again. “Don’t play games. There’s a hit. On Lara Jean.”

Gen scowls at the mention of her name. “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Genevieve. So it’s just one big, fat coincidence that you escape and there’s a hit out on Lara Jean?”

“ _You_ guys are the assassins,” she points out, crossing her arms. “I bet there’s a bunch of people after her. I’m good. I just wanted to see Ryan.”

“And escape,” he points out. “If you asked, I could’ve seen about getting you a supervised visit –”

Gen rolls her eyes at him. “Right. What did you expect me to say? ‘Hey, former boyfriend who got me locked up, can you please get the son you never knew we had to visit me? In prison?! And oh, by the way, I was so screwed up back when we were together I don’t even know if he really is yours, but please, help?’” Peter makes a face and turns away, exasperated. “You were the one who never wanted a commitment, or a family life, or – or – ”

“I was twenty-one!” he snaps. “And I knew you were cheating on me! All we ever did was fight and play games with each other. Of course I didn’t want all of that for a family, let alone a kid!”

Gen scoffs, and crosses her arms. They watch Ryan and his family get into an SUV. Vaguely, Peter remembers what it was like – to go to an afternoon game of lacrosse, argue with his little brother during the car ride . . . stop for ice cream and talk with his father. All the things they used to do as a family, before Dad just . . . left.

“It could still be like that,” Gen murmurs, wistful, the breeze blowing hair into her face.

Peter shakes his head. “No, it actually can’t,” he says, turning to face her. “He’s happy and healthy – and he _has_ his parents. Good parents, a good family. You need to get better. And – and I don’t love you anymore.”

Gen flinches, and looks down – but something in her posture makes him believe that she knew that, deep down, all along. Maybe the therapy really was helping her, despite this hiccup.

“Boy, she must have some hold over you, Kavinsky,” she mutters, wryly.

“Pretty much,” he admits. “I’m crazy about her.” He reaches for her hand – takes it, and squeezes, gently. “I am sorry. About everything. But please – let me take you back, okay?”

She nods mutely, and lets him lead her back to his car. “I’m going to take you to an exchange point in Chicago,” he says, after she buckles in. “It’ll be easier if you tell me who helped you get out.”

“They’re not going to hurt Frank, are they?” Gen asks.

Peter shakes his head. “They’ll probably want him more for his connections,” he says. “And I will tell them you came back willingly. What they really want to know is who ordered the hit on Lara Jean – and if anybody else is coming. They just want to be sure.”

“I told you, I didn’t order it,” Gen says. Then she hesitates, and says, “If I tell you what I know . . . when I do get out for real . . . will they promise they won’t stop me from seeing Ryan?”

Peter pauses. “Is that really a good thing for him?” he asks, gently.

She folds her arms across her chest, and looks out the window. They watch the SUV drive out of the parking lot and into traffic. “I would just like the option, at least,” she says, quietly.

He mulls it over, torn himself – mind still reeling from what he now knows. But he says, eventually, “I’ll ask.”

Gen nods, wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “I really didn’t order it,” she says. “Frank told me not to bother. That there was already a hit on her. He said that whoever it was, they’re good. That’s all I know.”

“Was it a cascade hit?”

“Cascade?”

“They won’t stop coming until the target is acquired,” Peter explains, grimly.

Gen shakes her head. “Then I don’t know. I don’t even know if Frank knows.”

Peter studies her face – weary, sad. _She’s telling the truth,_ he realizes. “Okay,” he says, and reaches over and gives her hand a tight squeeze. “Thank you.”

She nods once, and mouths it back.

*

Lara Jean stares at the burner cell, the shock of being so abruptly dismissed eventually fading into a muted anger. But there’s nothing she can do, because her general contractor is walking up to her, with a piece of paper, and an apologetic look on his face.

“Are you kidding me?” Lara Jean gapes at Manny, appalled, after she finishes reading the proposal.

“Sorry, Ms. Covey,” her general contractor says, and he does sound it. “But the whole system has to be torn out. Otherwise . . .”

Lara Jean stares at the astronomical number on the quote, the shrieking of construction equipment setting her teeth on edge. She’ll have to dip into her safety fund. She hadn’t wanted to – and thank god for insurance, even though she had to wrangle with them incessantly. “How much longer of a delay?”

“At least another week.”

_Another week?!_ Another week of lost profits. But is there any other way? She needs to get the shop up an running again. Her employees are counting on her. And she can’t do the weddings and birthday cakes in her own house. She already had to cancel and refund the Salernos’ tenth anniversary cake deposit – now she’ll probably have to cancel the Greenberg baby shower, too. And she’ll definitely have to push back the debut of her baking class for kids, which she’d been looking forward to for ages.

“Do it,” she says, grimly, and lets the piece of paper fall onto the repaired countertop. Glum, she pushes through the double doors and into the kitchen, and leans back against the stainless steel sink, arms crossed. With a heavy sigh, she looks up at the ceiling.

_This blows._

“LJ?” Startled, Lara Jean pushes off the sink. John Ambrose is peering through the double doors. He walks inside cautiously. “Sorry. The foreman let me in.”

“No, uh, come in, come in.” She gestures to the industrial fridge. “Do you want a drink?”

“No, I was just stopping by,” he says. He jerks a thumb back outside to the shop. “Looks like it’s coming along.”

“Not really,” she admits, dryly. At his questioning look, she says, “The fi – I mean, the incident left a couple of hidden surprises. I’m going to take a huge hit. Not to mention, loss of profits, being closed for so long . . .”

“Sorry,” and he does sound it.

“Me, too,” she mumbles. She crosses her arms, awkward. She’d last seen him at his apartment, after the Company had come in and cleaned up and debriefed her. There was no way to explain everything without telling him the truth, in the barest of terms. She hadn’t been able to read his expression when she told him about her former life, and how he couldn’t tell anyone else. “And how are you holding up?”

“Oh, not too bad,” he says, casually. “Considering I found out my ex-fiancee’s an international assassin.”

Lara Jean gives him a withering look. “Yeah – uh, like I said before, it’s better if you don’t talk about that too much – or, at all – I mean, for your safety, too.”

John Ambrose bites the inside of his cheek and nods, slowly. “Yeah, yeah I know.” Then he says, “It’s just – I wanted to know – is everything ok? I mean, is it safe for you?”

Lara Jean shrugs, almost helplessly. “Yes. I mean, that’s what the Company told me. They believe that the assassin was from the Russian mafia, and the only one assigned to me.” She crosses her arms, and notes, dry, “’Course, that doesn’t mean some _other_ hitman might come looking, sooner or later.”

John Ambrose grimaces. They look away from each other. _He must think I’m so awful,_ she thinks, despairing, but then he says, quietly, “It all must be very lonely,” and her heart seems to shatter, at being so well understood.

And he says, “This is all very weird and strange, but – if you need anything . . .”

Lara Jean glances away, unable to look at him fully, and whispers, feelingly, “Thank you.”

*

After he climbs the subway station steps, Peter stops at the closest corner bodega and pays for a bunch of colorful pink daisies. He considers texting Covey if he wants her to pick up something quick for dinner, maybe pizza, but opts against it because he wants it to be a surprise. He’s also half-afraid of looking at the burner – he doesn’t want to read whatever clipped message she may have sent him after he hung up on her three days ago.

Not that he doesn’t deserve it. But there’s too much to unpack and process over the past few weeks – hell, years – and whatever he can – or can’t tell her – has to be in person. Not over a cell phone. Especially when he doesn’t know what he’s going to say, or how she’ll even react. Especially when he still doesn’t know what he’s going to _do_.

One of Lara Jean’s neighbors is just leaving the complex, so he just slips in without having to use the intercom buzzer. At her door on the fourth floor, he just uses the spare key she gave him months ago. He can hear the TV blaring from the living room – definitely sounds like some British period drama, something that he would’ve argued vehemently against watching. He grins wryly, shaking his head.

“Yello?” he calls, walking down the hall. “That better not be some _North & South _bullshit – ”

“Peter?!”

Peter stops dead in his tracks at the entrance to the living room. Lara Jean jumps up from her end of the couch, surprised. At the other end of the couch is a guy that looks vaguely familiar, who sits up a little straighter in his seat.

“Hey,” Peter says, confused, as Lara Jean walks over to him.

“I didn’t know you were coming back,” she stumbles, fiddling with the sleeves of her shirt.

“Wanted it to be a surprise,” he says, eyes darting over to the couch. The guy has stood up now. “Hey,” he nods, trying not to be short. “I’m Peter.”

He smiles back, cautious but friendly – stretches out his hand. Peter fumbles with the daisies for a second and shifts the weight of his overnight bag to his other shoulder in order to shake properly. “John Ambrose McClaren.”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for the well-wishes, and the patience. :)


	7. Immediately After Part 2

She might die. She might actually melt into the floor and die.

Lara Jean hadn’t realized it, not until Peter stepped back into her apartment, what a tremendously bad idea it was to have started this mess - however unintentionally.

“Nice to meet you, man,” Peter says, shaking John Ambrose’s hand briskly. He’s smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. It’s the kind of smile he gives people when he’s trying to hide what he’s really feeling. Lara Jean chews the side of her lip, her heart sinking.

Peter turns to her, that stiff half-smile still on his face. “I’m just gonna put this in the room,” he says, hooking his thumb underneath the strap of his duffel bag. His duffel bag that is clearly an overnight bag stuffed with clothes, that he’s clearly about to put in her bedroom.

Lara Jean nods and ducks her head, scratching at her temple. He hands her the flowers and she accepts mutely, before taking the bouquet and walking into the kitchen to retrieve a vase. She avoids looking at John Ambrose.

She decides to take a very long time finding a vase. By the time she gets back with a tray of drinks and snacks, the guys have already taken their seats and are chatting - Peter on the loveseat to the left of the couch, and John Ambrose back on the right end. She sets the tray on the coffee table, next to the almost empty box of pizza - wonders, in a brief state of panic, where’s the safest place to sit - before nearly tripping over to her former seat on the left end of the couch.

They didn’t seem to notice her anxiety. “So I guess you’re from around here?” Peter is asking.

John Ambrose, nice and friendly as ever, says, “No, actually. Boston. I came here for work.”

“Yeah? What do you do?” Peter asks, swiping a bottle of beer from the tray.

“I’m a surgeon at Presbyterian.”

“ _Huh_.”

Lara Jean shoots him a questioning glare - _Why are you being such an_ asshole _?_ \- but he just lifts his brows and shifts in his seat and takes a sip of his beer.

“And you?” John Ambrose asks, conversationally.

“I’m a cop,” Peter lies, easily.

“NYPD?”

Lara Jean stiffens, but Peter says, “ ... No, Jersey City.” He pauses to flip open the pizza box. There’s only one slice left. He takes it anyway, which makes John Ambrose snort and catch eyes with Lara Jean. Despite herself, she smothers a giggle behind her glass of Coke.

“What?” Peter asks, clueless.

“Nothing, man,” John Ambrose says, chuckling. He stands up. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later, LJ.”

Lara Jean leaps gratefully up. “Yeah,” she says, not even bothering to try and be polite and insist he stay. “I’ll walk you out.”

She doesn’t look over her shoulder at Peter, and she’s at a total loss at what to say to John Ambrose. There’s been a shift in the air and she doesn’t know what it’s shifted to.

“I’m – uh – sorry,” she says, just as he starts to walk out the door. “I didn’t think he – I mean, I wasn’t expecting – anyway, I . . .” She stops, unable to continue.

John Ambrose pauses, and glances back down the hall, towards the living room, before he looks back at her. He starts to say something, and decides against it. “I guess I was just – you know, confused,” he says, finally.

Lara Jean bites her lip. _What the hell did I do?_ she thinks, despairingly. How the hell did it get this messed up, before she was even realizing how messed up it was? “I am sorry,” she whispers, stricken.

He nods once. “See you later,” he says, quietly, and presses her elbow, and walks out.

Lara Jean closes the door behind him and leans against the wood for a long moment, until she hears the television change from posh English accents to the cheers of an audience at some kind of game – basketball, from the sound of it. Annoyed, she walks back into the living room and doesn’t look at Peter, just gathers up all the snacks and trash and cups and bowls into the tray.

“Do you need any help?” he asks as she comes back for her second trip, this time to grab the empty pizza box.

“No.” She collapses the box swiftly and stalks back into the kitchen, tidying up with a vengeance. She dunks all the cups and mugs into the sink, turns on the tap, and starts scrubbing ferociously. She doesn’t hear him walk in, but she can almost feel him lean against the door jamb, watching.

“Why didn’t you tell McClaren that we were together?” Neutral enough.

“Never came up.” Neutral enough, too.

“‘Kay.” Another pause. “Whatever happened to his fiancée?”

“Never came up.”

“ ... Huh.”

‘”Huh,” huh? Just a _huh._ He’s been gone for weeks and all he can say is ... She shuts off the faucet and grabs the dishtowel, wiping at her hands. “You said it was fine to hang out with him.”

“When the hell did I say that?”

Her eyes bug out. “When I first told you I found out he was a regular!”

His eyes go wide, too. “I never said that!”

“So, you’re not fine, then?” Is he _purposely_ being obtuse?

He kind of gawps at her, before he says, “No, I’m not fine that my girlfriend doesn’t tell her ex that she’s not single.”

She hedges. “It never came up – ”

“Or that you’ve been making special fucking deliveries to his work. Or that you’re hanging out with him at your apartment in the middle of the night - ”

“Wait. What?” Lara Jean says, surprised. “How did you know about - ” She sees it - the slight grimace, like he knows he’s been caught. “That – that _was_ Trevor, wasn’t it?”

He sits down at the island and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Covey . . .” And then he goes on like he’s talking to a small child, which rankles her even more, “There was a detail on you because there was a hit – ”

“Right. A hit that was a lot more dangerous than some standard slice and dice,” she says. “A hit that warranted getting the head of security on my tail – ”

“Covey – ”

“That ended up getting two agents killed – ”

“Lara Jean – ”

“That nearly got _me_ – ” He ducks his head at that, starts to say something, but then she says, sharply, “My shop is a wreck, Peter! I had to cancel on so many catering clients. Do you know how much it’s gonna cost me?!”

He sighs. “I’m sorry. I can’t imagine. I can give you some money if you need – ”

“Peter,” she sighs, exasperated. “It’s not about the money. It just – it just sucks, okay? I was _really_ looking forward to that children’s baking class.” A couple of the neighborhood children were going to be there. They’d been so excited. She’d already gotten the cookie cutters – magic-themed, with unicorns and dragons. It was because Joanie Carlucci from down the block got into a fight with little Raj from around the corner about what the first class would be and Lara Jean thought a compromise would be best.

He nods, slowly. “Yeah, yeah I know. I’m sorry about that. I know how much you like spending time with all those kids.”

She glances away, unwilling to talk about it. It’s not something she talks about – that either of them talk about. It’s not something she consciously thinks about it, either. The simple fact of the matter is, once an agent joins the Company, they’re sterilized. Neither of them can have children. Too much of a liability. And she’s honestly fine with it – she hadn’t wanted kids then, and despite enjoying spending time with them, she doesn’t want them now.

It does still kind of grate, in the oddest moments – the fleeting wonder of, _What if?_

“But really,” he’s saying now. “If you need the money, I can do it.”

“No, Peter. You already sacrificed so much. I don’t want you getting into more debt with the Company because of this. I don’t want you staying longer with them – ”

“Kinda my choice.”

“ - going out there and getting hurt, or worse – ”

“That’s part of the job,” he reminds her, gently.

“I _know_ that, I know, I just – ”

“Then why do you keep – look, I know things were rough for you when you were a – but – ” He scratches at the back of his neck, flustered, which surprises her. She can’t think of many times she’s ever seen him ill at ease.

“Keep what?”

“Nothing. It’s nothing.” He presses his thumb and forefinger into his closed eyes, shoulders slumped, and it occurs to her that he looks tired – that he may have traveled very far to get here.

And then the bolt of sympathy that eased the tension in her own shoulders erases into a nagging, creeping doubt again – because _where_ did he come from? And why?

Hesitant, she leans her hip against the kitchen island, arms crossed and head down. “The Company told me the hit was ordered by the Shulaya.”

In the corner of her eye she sees him nod. “Yes.”

“Was it a cascade order?”

He shakes his head.

She looks up, catches his gaze. “Is my family in danger?” If it was just some random revenge hitman, he wouldn’t have known about her family. But if it had been someone else, someone who knew who she really was, knew everything about her father and sisters . . .

“No.”

It was such a little hesitation, but she spots it, right away. Her hackles rise and she shifts, pushes off the island. “Peter?”

His posture loosens, like he’s given up, and he says, quietly, looking away – like he can’t meet her gaze – “There were hits ordered, but we managed to neu – ”

“Peter!” She covers her face with her hands, panicked.

“Covey – ” She feels him grab her by both upper arms, to calm her down, but she shrugs him off.

“Are they okay? Did they – ”

“They’re _fine._ ” He pauses, and says, “I shouldn’t be telling you this, but – an agent went to Virginia. Bypassed him as soon as he got off the plane. Your father and stepmother are fine. I went to Scotland myself for Margot’s. She and the girls are okay. They all never even – ”

“Kitty – ”

“We think the Virginia hitman was going to go to Kitty, next. Chatter’s gone dark.”

Lara Jean shakes her head. Tears prickle in her eyes and she snaps, in the heat of anger, “God. I should’ve taken the shot.”

Peter inhales, taken aback. “Don’t say stuff like that.”

“I should’ve,” she says, resolved. “Our covers were blown, Genevieve is the only person who would’ve known about my family – I should’ve taken the stupid shot!”

He says, pleading, “She didn’t have anything to do with it. The Company is pretty sure it was the Shulaya – ”

“Why are you always protecting her?! After all she’s done! She tried to kill – twice!” she exclaims, fed up. “The Russian mafia makes no sense. I killed one of their mercs at least ten years ago. It doesn’t make sense! It has to be Gen.” He keeps shaking his head, which riles her up even more. “It’s Gen. I don’t know how she managed to do it inside of prison but it has to be her – ”

“It wasn’t her.”

“How can do you know?!”

“Because I saw her!” he explodes, finally. “She escaped. I followed leads in – ” He stops, corrects himself, and continues, talking in a clipped, professional tone, “ – before and after I neutralized your sister’s hitter, I was working leads. I apprehended her back in the States. She was cooperative. The intel she gave us panned out.”

Lara Jean tries to keep the scoff low, a puff of anger from the back of her throat, but she sees Peter react to it with frustrated roll of his eyes. Which is just – what an _asshole_ – “I just can’t believe you actually believe her,” she says. “That even now, you’re _still_ keeping things from me.”

“Lara Jean, you know the rules – ”

“You mean the rules we’re breaking right now anyway, just by you being here?” she points out. “Seems awfully convenient about the rules you get to pick and choose.”

“I just don’t want to dig you – ourselves – in a further hole than we already are in – ”

She steps back, stunned. “Is that what you think of us? Some kind of hole?”

“ _No._ ” Then, suddenly, as if it just occurred to him, “You know what, why are you acting like this? You’re the one who said you wanted in. You knew this was part of the deal. Are you _trying_ to sabotage things?”

“What?!”

“Yeah, keep your options open. Go back to your old fiancé, your old life – ”

Lara Jean shakes her head and whispers, “No. Of course not.” Old life? How can she ever go back to having her old life – a _normal_ life? The past few months have made it viscerally clear that no matter what, she’ll always be a Company agent. She’ll always be a killer.

Something in her expression makes Peter soften his – he says, quickly, “Sorry – I didn’t mean – ” And she knows he meant he’s sorry about the fight, that he accused her of cheating . . . and that while that had cut, the real sting was realizing how much she can’t go back, back to being normal girl . . . and that she _still_ hasn’t told him about the thief from months ago.

He stands up and walks over to her, puts his arms around her and lays his cheek on the top of her head. Some of the tension eases in her chest and she blinks back tears.

“Let’s never fight again,” he mumbles, and she squeezes his waist in agreement. There’s still so many things they need to talk about, but she’s exhausted and she can’t even remember why she was mad at him anymore.

He takes her hand, and starts to lead her out of the kitchen – but she pulls at his hand, so that he presses her against the edge of the island, and she wraps her arms around his neck, on tip-toe.

He laughs against her mouth, small and rueful. “What?” she murmurs, between slow, light kisses.

“Nothing,” he says, bracing both hands on either side of her on the countertop. He pulls back slightly, to kiss the tip of her nose. “Just – remember that day back in Oregon?” She looks up at him, quizzical, and he kisses her again, deeper. “I kept thinking – before we – anyway, it was after that call with Boss. I kept having these . . . in the kitchen – ”

She shivers, at the way his voice dips, low, in his throat. “Yes, I remember,” she murmurs, as he drags his mouth down her neck, following the chain of her locket, before sweeping up again. She’d felt like her entire body was humming, on the edge of a tightrope, and if he hadn’t left so abruptly she’s pretty sure they might have ended up screwing on that kitchen island.

She slowly boosts herself up onto the edge of the island – hooks her leg around his hip. His hand goes up her skirt – his fingers hook on the edge of her underwear, and tugs, just so. “Well,” she murmurs, into his ear, as he presses closer to her. “That was back then. This is now.”

*

After Peter finally feels Lara Jean take that deep, long breath that tells him she’s fallen asleep, he unlaces his fingers with her limp ones and unfurls his arm from her waist. Lara Jean doesn’t even move, her back to him. He pulls the covers up to her shoulder, then swings his legs over his side of her bed – rubs his neck, tired. He should really try and sleep, but he can’t.

Instead, he finds his boxers on the floor, slips them on, and goes to his duffel bag. He puts on a pair of ratty sweatpants, then digs around the bottom of the bag for the manila folder, before he quietly steals out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

He sits down at the island and opens the file folder up, grimly flipping through the pages. He’d only skimmed them briefly, enough to figure out where Gen was headed. And now, with the whole not-sleeping thing, he finally has the time to digest.

He had to go about it the old-fashioned way, with paper copies and cash payments. No way Peter could risk letting the Company know about Ryan by looking at his electronic activity. As far as the Company knows, he managed to track down Gen to New Trier and that’s it.

Peter stops at the adoption records and birth certificate – father unknown. The dates add up. It makes sense. It would be easy to find out for sure.

But then what would the point be? It’s not like Peter’s the fatherly type. He didn’t have the greatest example. The kid’s happy. He has a good family, in a rich town. And there’s no telling what the Company would do. Yes, if Ryan’s his, it was before becoming an agent, but starting – and maintaining – and kind of relationship with the kid would be impossible.

And Lara Jean . . .

He shuffles the papers back into the file folder, then gets up and turns on the range. He holds a corner of the folder over the burner. The flames start small, curling the edges to black, and he dumps the folder into the sink.

He can’t tell Covey, not after the way she’d reacted about Gen. She’d kill him. She would never . . . she would never forgive him, and he can’t stand that idea – the specter of her disappointment, her hurt. He can’t risk that.

A crisp knock on the door startles him – quickly, he runs the tap and puts out the fire, before he walks to the door and checks the peephole. Guy in a workman’s uniform.

“Yeah?” he calls.

“Tenant below says there’s a leak, I need to check it out.”

The monotone reply – the hat pulled low over his eyes – it all immediately puts Peter on edge. “ID?”

The plumber says, “Sure,” and reaches into his tool bag.

Peter presses flat against the wall, just as the four silenced shots slice through the heavy door. One grazes his left thigh and he shouts, which only sends another spray of bullets. Peter dashes back into the kitchen, slipping on woodchips and blood, before the door is kicked open.

_Shit shit shit shit –_ his sidearm is in the duffel, back in the bedroom – he can hear boots stalking down the hall, stopping just at the doorway of the kitchen –

All the way down, the bedroom door cracks open – “Peter?”

“Covey, get down!” Peter yells, ignoring the way his injured leg screams, as he pushes of the ground and at the gunman.

*

_Shit!_ Lara Jean ducks back into her bedroom, in time to see Peter grapple for the gun – and just in time to avoid several bullets embedding itself in the wall behind her. She dives for the top drawer of her dresser, scrabbling for her poisoned hairpins – she can hear the struggle continue outside the bedroom door, the sound of something shattering on the floor . . . a curse – _Peter!_ – and more thudding.

She opens the door – sees both of them still struggling, just a whirl of punches and kicks amongst the wreck of her living room. _The gun – where’s the gun?_ But then the assassin kicks Peter’s stomach, and then an uppercut underneath his chin, sending him sprawling away, so Lara Jean lets her hairpins fly in quick succession.

_One – two – three –_

The gunman bats the first two away, catches the third – and stalks towards her, pin raised. Lara Jean dodges and weaves, throwing punches and kicks, but so does he – and he slams her up the wall.

And then Peter tackles him. They both go down in a heap, sliding into the heavy console table – Lara Jean falls her to her knees, coughing – and looks up, just in time to see the assassin grab the gun from underneath the upended console table and shoot Peter in the stomach.

*

“ _Peter! No!_ ”

Peter falls backwards. There’s this brief moment of _What the fuck just happened?_ And then, because he’s been shot a few times before, he realizes, almost absurdly, _Oh, that._ And because he’s been shot a few times before, he knows this one is particularly bad. His hands come away wet, sticky – through the shattering pain he can feel his blood burbling from the wound, out of his stomach.

_Fuck._

He has just enough presence of mind to lift his head from the floor, in time to see the assassin get up shakily and head towards Lara Jean – gun trained.

_Move._ He wants to shout at her. _Get out_. But she’s just standing there, her face ashen and slack with shock.

_Move._ And this time he’s shouting at himself, because he realizes – her hairpin, the asshole dropped the hairpin, and his shaking fingers are curling around them on the floor, slippery –

And he sits up, throws – and the hairpin embeds in the gunman’s temple with a heavy thud.

He doesn’t get the chance to see if the guy falls, because his vision starts to swim, and suddenly he’s staring up at the ceiling, the world rocking around him, and turning alarmingly black around the edges.

“Peter. Peter – Peter, stay awake. Peter – ”

He shakes his head – feels pressure, on his stomach – but it’s light pressure, it’s barely anything. He blinks and sees Covey, pressing down on his stomach with all her might.

“Peter, _please_ – ”

Why is she crying?

“Peter, please please please . . .” She lets out a sob. “Peter, just – hold on, I’ll call for help. I’ll get help, okay?”

“N-no, don’t,” he manages to get out. She can’t. “Company.” She can’t take him to a Company infirmary. Then they’ll know everything about them. And she can’t call for a civilian ambulance, because they’ll still find out – they’ve got people everywhere - they monitor everything – and _fuck_ , they’re fucked. He’s fucked.

He licks his lips – tastes salt, and copper. Tries to tell her something. Anything. But everything is starting to grow darker, black, and her crying seems to be growing farther and farther away.

The last thing he feels is her lips on his forehead – and then he hears Lara Jean whispering – no, talking, it’s just so far away it sounds like she’s whispering –

“I need help . . . I have . . . no right . . . but _please_ , I need some help . . .”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, all. Thank you for still reading, if you're still reading. I haven't been able to find the time to work on this to the extent that I would've liked. After we recovered from covid-19, I'd hoped to get cracking again, but work started heating up and I am still homeschooling the children for the foreseeable future. I am trying my best to keep going, but with the way things are going, I'm not sure about the frequency of updates. Thank you to all that have commented and left kudos. <3


	8. Immediately After Part 3

There’s nothing to do but clean.

For the vast majority of her hits, Lara Jean left her jobs to pass away of “natural” causes, as quickly as two minutes or as long as a few days later. The clean-up came by way of the local authorities and the morgue. For some of the others, she’d had a crew come in from the Company.

And a handful of other times, she’d had to do the job herself.

Perfunctory and professional. She looks through his tool bag – no ID, naturally, but a cache of knives and guns along with plumbing equipment. How ridiculous – as if anyone would check his bag. Anyway. It _does_ come in handy. She keeps the silencer and the extra ammo, just in case. And then she breaks the joints on the already stiffening body with a hammer from the guy’s bag, and folds the gunman up in her largest suitcase. Then she grabs the tool bag and rolls the suitcase, wheels clacking miserably against each step, down the stairs and to the bakery van. Thank god she’d started parking it at her place in the event that she could manage to get some small baking jobs completed during the reconstruction of the shop. She’d been able to use it to steal the supplies from the hospital, too.

Then she goes back upstairs, to clean the blood – Peter’s blood – off the floor. She stares at the puddles of sticky crimson and blinks, shuddering – because all of a sudden, she could’ve sworn she saw Josh on the floor, bleeding out and dying, instead of Peter.

It takes another moment for her to find her composure, but she finds the cleaning helps her think.

She will have to dump the body somewhere. Anywhere near the city is too conspicuous. She’ll dump the tool bag in a completely different area. She will have to do it all tomorrow night – it’s already near daylight.

It’s obviously a cascade hit, she surmises, grim, as she wrings out the rag in her bucket. She’s got some time. Maybe a week or two, before they realize he’s not going to check in and they’ll have to send another. Her family though – she’ll have to do something about them.

_I have enough money to splurge for them to go on a vacation. I’ll tell them it’s on me. The bakery is having a great year. If I can keep them moving – that’ll work. A tour. Maybe Europe . . ._ It’s temporary, but it’ll have to do.

She goes to the kitchen, to pour out the pink water – but stops, when she notices a half-burned file folder in the sink. In her haste to clean, she’d completely blew past it when she initially filled her bucket. She takes it out, puts it on the counter, and dumps the water – washes her hands. Then she sits down at the island and opens the soggy folder.

“Lara Jean?”

Lara Jean slaps the folder closed and runs back towards the second bedroom. John Ambrose is taking off his surgical gloves, his mask hanging from his neck.

“How is he?” she whispers, nervously fiddling with her locket.

“He’s stable,” John Ambrose says, and she sags with relief. “He’s going to need a lot of rest. He lost a lot of blood. We’re not exactly in sterile conditions – I’ve got him on antibiotics. You’ll need to monitor him. I’ll give you instructions – ”

“Yes, please, anything, thank you,” Lara Jean murmurs quickly, wiping her eyes.

John Ambrose looks around the living room – at where the body used to be, where the blood stains were. “Do I want to know?”

Lara Jean shakes her head. “I feel like all I do is apologize to you,” she says, close to weeping again. “But it’s better that you don’t know.”

“So . . . this Peter guy . . . must be one of you?”

“Yes.”

“And the reason you couldn’t get your old company to come and help . . .?”

She wipes her cheeks again, looking at the floor. “They have rules – very strict ones. We’re not supposed to be seeing each other. I don’t know what happens, if they ever find out. But I’ve heard things.” She rubs the locket between her fingers, distraught. “There’s a – facility – somewhere in Australia. I heard they . . . deprogram you . . .” She shudders. _It didn’t happen. It won’t happen._

“Okay, okay, come on,” John Ambrose says, reaching over to hug her. She grabs him tightly and allows a moment to calm herself down, to feel safe again.

“John?”

“Yeah?”

“ . . . Whatever happened to your fiancé?”

John Ambrose pulls away slightly. “How’d you know about Dipti?”

Lara Jean pulls back too. “After I left – ” She hesitates, then plunges forward “ – y-you, I . . . I’d keep tabs, once in a while. I’d found out you were engaged. But . . . you haven’t mentioned her, ever since we . . .”

“Ah.” He nods along, then peers at her for a moment before he says, “We’d been doing long-distance. She’s doing the same Doctors Without Borders I did, but in India. We’re in a . . . evaluation phase, I guess you could call it.”

“Sounds very doctor-y,” she muses, and he chuckles, rueful.

“Yeah. Assess the damage. Make recommendations. Develop a treatment plan.” He peers at her again, that discerning gaze of his, and then he says, “Back in Boston . . . was all that fake, too? Pretend?”

_He means the mission_ , she tells herself, her heart bottoming out into her stomach so suddenly she feels a little light-headed, upended. _He just means the mission._

But no, he doesn’t mean that. And perhaps it’s because of everything that’s happened, Lara Jean knows what to do.

“No, that was real,” she says, quietly. “But it was also a long time ago.” So much has changed, since then. “I’m really so – ” She stops, because John is about to laugh, and then _she_ laughs. “I need to stop apologizing.”

“Yeah, you do,” he agrees, touching her cheek fondly. She pats his hand, smiles up at him. “But it’s okay.” Then he grins. “But I do think you owe me chocolate peanut butter cupcakes for life.”

She bursts out laughing, on the edge of hysterical – given the circumstances, she feels like she’s entitled. She reaches over and hugs him tight. “Towers of them,” she promises, her heart swelling with gratitude.

*

Lara Jean sighs, exhausted, as she finally closes her laptop and puts down her cellphone. It took her forever and a half, and some of her best acting, to convince Margot to pack up the girls and Ravi and accept the e-tickets heading her way. But it’s done. Starting in two days, her entire family is going on a whirlwind tour of the European continent. Except for Kitty, who insisted on relaxing in Mexico with her girlfriend instead. Fine. Whatever. She had no time more time to argue with her little sister. It’ll absolutely kill Lara Jean’s savings, but no matter. Once the shop is up and running again, she’ll make do.

The bigger issue is what she’s going to do, when the next hitman comes for her. She can’t go back to the Company, because then they’ll want to know how _she_ knows that it’s a cascade order – and then they’ll find out about Peter and her. It’s making her head hurt, swimming in anxiety and confusion.

She looks over at the bed – at Peter, hooked up to the machines and IV drips, all that Lara Jean could steal from the hospital while John Ambrose had worked to save his life. He could be sleeping, except there are bandages tightly packed around his stomach, and his face looks slack, an odd shade of milky grey.

She rubs at her eyes, blinks – and it’s not Peter lying on the bed, she’s not even in her bedroom anymore, she’s in Syria, and Kenny is running to grab the last straggling kid – and she’s yelling in her comm for him to stop – and there’s a sharp _bang!_ and he’s collapsed in a spray of dust –

She shakes her head at the memory, and sets down the laptop and phone on the floor, then draws the armchair closer to the bed. She picks up his right hand and leans over. “Hey,” she whispers, against his forehead. “Hey, I have something to tell you.  
  
“You’ve never visited me while it’s snowing. The first winter here, it was so beautiful. We had a really big storm. I was walking back from work, and it was late, and it was so quiet. This city. Quiet, can you imagine that?” She giggles, and of course he doesn’t reply, and she watches a few of her tears darken the pillow by his head. “You got to get better, so next time you come up here, I can show you. How beautiful it is and how still. You’d like it. You’d pretend not to, but you’re a big softie. I can tell.” She tightens her grip on his hand and kisses his bruised and cut knuckles. “Just get better, Peter, okay? You can’t go and break my heart like this. You promised.”  
  
*  
  
Lara Jean wakes up with the worst crick in her neck and someone’s fingers sifting through her hair.  
  
Shocked, she bolts upright in her chair. Peter’s looks almost blankly at her, eyes half-lidded, still grey and utterly exhausted but awake.  
  
“Oh, thank god,” she whimpers, grabbing his hand. She kisses him on the cheek and brushes some hair off his forehead. “Hi. _Hi._ ”  
  
“‘Ey ... Wha -“ He swallows, tries again. “Hitman?”  
  
“Dead. It’s okay. You’re okay,” she says, unable to stop the tears from flowing again. She wipes hastily at her cheeks.  
  
His eyes dart around the room - at the equipment he’s hooked up to, at his stomach. “ ... How?”  
  
“I’ll explain later. Just stay here. Stay right there.” She bolts out of her chair and runs to the door. “He’s up. He’s awake,” she calls to John Ambrose, dozing on the couch. Then she rushes back into the room, and grabs Peter’s hand again, smiling happily down at him. “Don’t _scare_ me like that again, okay?”

“Not like – I did it – on purpose,” he grumbles affectionately. Then his eyes dart to the door in surprise – then back at her, and she almost recoils in surprise, at the anger she sees there.

“Hey,” John Ambrose says, affably, as he heads over with his penlight. As he checks Peter’s vitals and asks him some questions, Lara Jean watches, dismayed, at Peter’s visible change in attitude. He even starts loosening his grip on her hand.

And when John Ambrose finishes, saying something about how much he has to take it easy and get some rest, Peter says – almost snaps – “Right, doc. I’ll get right on that.” He closes his eyes and says, to Lara Jean, “Do you mind?”

“S-sure,” Lara Jean mumbles, confused, and she and John Ambrose shuffle out, quietly closing the door behind them.

“I can stay for a few days – make sure he’s healing properly,” he offers.

She worries her lower lip between her teeth. “I would love that,” she says, guilty, “but I can’t ask that. I – I don’t know if – I don’t know how safe it would be, for you.”

He nods slowly. “Lara Jean – are _you_ safe?”

“As houses,” she remarks, trying to keep the bitterness out of her voice. She smiles, limp and tired, at him. “I will be okay. But I put you in danger by asking you to come here – asking you to keep my secrets – and I can’t really forgive myself for that.”

“ . . . LJ . . . “

“Thank you.” She grabs his hand, and presses it, one last time. “For everything.” She stares at their entwined fingers, then says, pragmatic, “Maybe you should go on a trip for a while. Visit some people. Put on that hero’s cape again, but somewhere else. Maybe India.” She looks up and puts on a brave smile. “When you get back, those cupcakes will be waiting for the both of you.”

He smiles sadly back at her, and pulls her close for another hug. “The instructions are on the island,” he says, kissing her temple, and then he walks out of her home, and just like that he’s gone, all over again.

She has a another good cry, the sadness and craziness of everything that’s unfolded burbling forward until she’s weeping into her hands in the hallway – but thankfully, it only lasts a few moments. She trudges into the kitchen to wipe her eyes and sits down at the island. As promised, the list of instructions are on the countertop, which she reads but doesn’t really process.

As she sets down the sheet of torn-out notebook paper, she notices the folder again. It takes her a slow half-second to remember – she never had a chance to look at it. The hitman certainly wouldn’t have been the one to put it in the sink, or much less burn it . . . so it must have been . . . it had to have been Peter . . .

It’s wrinkled, completely dry now. The top right corner is gone – in fact, the file folder itself is nearly half gone, so that whatever was written on the tab – if anything – is completely lost, curled black and flaking apart to the touch. But from what she can tell, there is a one inch stack of papers inside.

Lara Jean opens the folder.

*

Peter wakes up to the smell of snickerdoodles in the air.

Again.

Groggy, he wipes his face and stares at the ceiling for a while, trying to summon the strength – it’s only been three days since he’d been well enough to start walking again. He’d kept to himself in the second bedroom and bathroom, pretending to be asleep whenever Covey would slide a tray of food onto the side table, and whenever she’d come back to retrieve it.

It’s mainly his fault, he knows. It’s just he’d been so shocked to find out Covey had gotten a civilian to help him, burying them all in an even deeper hole. And, well, even though it was completely irrational, it hurt to find out she had asked her ex.

But he should man up, and deal with it now that he’s had some time to grumble about it alone. And they have to figure out who’s behind this cascade hit – before Covey single-handedly deprives all of New York City of flour and butter in yet another pensive baking session.

Gingerly, he gets out of bed – pulls a t-shirt over his bandaged stomach. It hurts like hell, but he forces himself to walk like nothing’s bothering him. He knows Covey will nag if he goes out looking like he’s half-dead.

_Kinda justified._ He frowns, shaking his head, at the memory of her panicked, tear-streaked face.

He shuffles into the kitchen, just as Lara Jean slides a tray of unbaked snickerdoodles into the oven. He frowns at the stacks of Tupperware, all already filled with snickerdoodles – there’s even two trays still cooling on the back counter. As she closes the oven door, he says, “Hey,” meaning for it to sound casual and easy, but it sounds far too gravely for his liking.

Lara Jean, startled, exclaims, “Oh! You’re out! I mean – up. You’re up.”

He ignores her immediate wince – she must’ve heard him moving about in the bedroom for the past few days. “Yeah. I figured – rise and shine.”

She smiles, wan, at him. “I – I was worried,” she says.

“What – it takes more than one bullet to stop me,” he says, cavalierly.

Her smile dips a little, and she just fusses with the edge of her apron, before she starts cleaning up the mess of mixing bowls and utensils and ingredients.

Peter frowns – the energy in the room has shifted. He’d expected to come in and – well, not admit he’d been angry, but at least move past it. It’s almost like she’s mad at him. Which – okay, he was being a dick, but . . .

He steels himself. She’s not going to like what he’s going to say, but it has to be done at this rate. There’s no other alternative.

“So, I was thinking,” he says. “Let’s get away from here for a while. I have a few ideas where we can hide out.”

“A while?” she muses, not looking at him, as she putters about.

“Yeah. Like – maybe a month or so. Bakery is undergoing repairs anyway. You can have Chris reopen.”

“No, I’d rather do that myself,” she says. “I want to stay. It’s my shop.”

He was afraid of this. He knows her shop is her world, but she has to see the practical side of things. “Lara Jean. Do you really think that’s a good idea?” he says. “We need to figure out who ordered the hit. It’s obviously a cascade. And while we can’t tell Boss about this one, at least you’ll be prepared for the next, and then you can go to him and ask for more protection without raising suspicions – ”

“Well, we already know who ordered it.” Peter feels his brows turn down, at the way her voice had turned from soft, to quiet ice. “It’s obviously Gen.”

Peter rubs his forehead, already exhausted. “Lara Jean.”

“Peter.” She sighs, and shakes her head. “Don’t – don’t even try to argue with me on this. Not after everything that’s happened.”

“Covey. I already told you everything. She’s not – ”

“Everything? You told me everything.” Her voice swings out, high, and he almost takes a step back.

“Lara Jean?”

“All right.” She licks her lips, turns – grabs something from the back counter. His eyes widen as she slaps the burned, but still intact, manila folder onto the island. The papers slide out. He grabs at them before they fall, looking up at her helplessly.

“Who’s Ryan Kincade?”

-tbc-


	9. Immediately After Part 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short one. some dialogue is taken directly from the psisly movie.

“I can explain.”

Lara Jean sucks her lips into her mouth, pressing them so tightly together she’s sure it’ll leave them bruised. But better that then to start crying. No – she wouldn’t cry again. She’d felt so stupid – so . . . so _used_ , the entire time he’d been recuperating in her home – so bitter and ashamed at herself for not having the courage to kick him out. Instead she freaking nursed him back to health and here is he trying to come up with _excuses_ –

“Don’t bother, I connected the dots,” she says, when she’s sure her voice won’t waver. “You tried to burn the name of the father off the birth certificate, but it’s pretty obvious – ”

Peter shakes his head. “I didn’t _try_ to – ” Lara Jean makes a disgusted face. “Okay, wait, I did. But it wouldn’t have – I’m not listed as – I’m not his father.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that?” She stops, because her voice definitely went shrill there. “Peter. How stupid do you think I am?”

“I don’t think you’re stupid at all,” he says, tersely. Her frown deepens – why is he annoyed at her? He has some nerve. “I just think you’re jumping to conclusions without letting me explain – ”

“I asked you to explain before! A million times before!” She gestures to the folder. “Was that the mission? The mission that was ‘totally unrelated’ to Genevieve? Don’t even say it wasn’t! Don’t lie!”

Peter presses his thumb and forefinger into his eyes – rubs his face with his hand, slowly. When he finally looks up, he meets her gaze, resigned. “When I was assigned to your sister, I . . . had my suspicions about who might have ordered the hits on your family.” The knowledge that he did suspect Gen, and lied to her about it, makes her stomach clench bitterly, and she blinks back another retort. “So I did some digging. I – didn’t want to get her in even more trouble than she already was from escaping. So I did some . . . back channel intel.”

There’s so much to process. “So you just – helped her out. After all she’s done, out of the kindness of your heart – ” Lara Jean says, sarcastically. Peter’s bites his lip and looks away. “He’s yours, isn’t he?” He looks down at the floor. “Did you know about him before? Did you know about him during the Oregon op?”

He looks up, insulted. “ _No._ I never had a clue.”

“But is he yours?” she presses.

“I don’t know,” he says, weakly. “I just – I mean, the timing, yes – there’s a possibility – but she was also cheating on me with another guy at the time, so – Lara Jean . . .?”

She hadn’t realized she’d been standing there, shaking her head repeatedly at what he’d been saying, until he’d spoken her name. “So – if that hitman hadn’t come – you would’ve . . . you would’ve just kept burning that file. You wouldn’t have even ever _told_ me, about the possibility – ”

“I – I . . .” He trails off, looking panicked, lost.

She bites the inside of her cheek until she can taste blood. “Why? Why would you – why would you _protect_ her like that? She ruined my shop."

"She didn't - "

"She came after my _family_ , Peter, I had to send them away – ”

“I did it to protect you. Everything I’ve done I’ve done to protect you, Lara Jean –”

“That is _bullshit_ – ”

“There is so much bad blood between you – she had nothing to do with it – it would’ve made everything worse –”

“No, what made it worse was that _you didn’t tell me!_ ” She’s vaguely aware how high her voice has gotten, but she can’t seem to stop herself. Everything about the past few months – the past few weeks – starts burbling forward in a hot rush of suspicion. “I mean, was that the plan all along? Rescue Gen from her abusive, gun-running husband? Get back together with her? Raise your happy little family – ”

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he exclaims. “How could you even – ” He makes a harsh, scoffing sound. “ _You’re_ the one who’s been acting off for months. Not telling me shit, either.” She bristles, guilty, at the reminder of the robbery incident from months ago. “You’re the one who’s hanging out with your ex.” She rolls her eyes at him, glaring at a spot at the floor. “No, what you did was irresponsible, Covey. You should never have gotten him to help. Do you know how much danger you put him in? He’s a civilian, Lara Jean. The Company could get to him, or worse, whoever put the hit on you, could – ”

Pissed that this conversation has taken such a turn, she snaps, “I know, okay?! But if I didn’t, you’d be dead. Dead. And I couldn’t risk – ” She shakes her head, shuddering. “I feel so badly about it. It’s killing me. But John knew everything already, and I couldn’t just let you – ” She stops, overwhelmed suddenly by the memory of him bleeding out in the hall, before she mutters, “I couldn’t let you die.”

  
His brows dip in confusion. “Wait wait wait - he knew? What do you mean, he _knew_ already?”

  
Lara Jean wipes her red cheeks with her hands. “He knew,” she says, distraught, “because he was there when the Volkov attacked me at the shop.”

  
Peter pauses. “Does the Company - ”

  
“No.”

  
He’s silent for a moment, before he grinds out, angry “ ... Trevor told me the attack occurred before opening. That’s got to be what? 4 am?”

  
Lara Jean eyes his carefully. “He was coming off the night shift.”

  
“The night shift.” He barks out a laugh, harsh and bitter. “The night shift - how many times had he been coming off the night shift – ”

  
“Peter,” Lara Jean sighs.

  
“What the fuck were you two doing – ”

  
“ _Nothing_! Because I was too busy being lonely, wondering where the hell you were, why you were lying to me about Gen and everything and - and - why are you being such a _dick_?” she hisses. “He saved your life. I owe him so much - ”  
  


“Right. Well, why don’t you go show the big, important surgeon how grateful you are.”

Lara Jean stares up at him, lips parted slightly in shock – his face slackens in realization, at what he just said. Her eyes dart towards the hallway, and back at him – resolute. “You should go.”

He looks at her, shakes his head. “Covey.”

“Go.” She lifts her chin, trying to be defiant. “You can walk now. Go.”

“There’s a cascade hit out on you,” he says. “I walk out that door, another hitman will be walking through it soon and – ”

“She already did.” Peter’s eyebrows go way up in shock. She rolls up her left sleeve and shows off the fresh bandage enveloping her wrist to her elbow. “A week ago. You were out like a light. I took care of her. Alone.” She looks away. “I’m used to that. Maybe that’s the way it should be.”

“Don’t – don’t say that,” he says, stricken.

“Just go.” She turns her back to him, to face the sink.

Over her shoulder, she hears him scoff a disbelieving, “Yeah, right,” and then there’s the sound of him walking back into the bedroom. To her credit, she doesn’t cry – not even when she hears him gather up his belongings and walk out, the front door slamming shut behind him.

-tbc-


	10. 19 months in

Lara Jean regrets it, almost immediately.

But there’s nothing to do about it. Peter’s gone. She sent him away. She has the bakery to get back up and running. And yes – there’s another hitman coming – but she’ll be damned if she’ll let them run her out of the city, out of her dream. She’s lost so much and she’s not losing the shop, not without a fight.

There is one good thing about Peter being gone – now, when the next assassin comes, all she’ll have to do is take him or her down, call up the Company, and demand further protection and a reopening of the investigation into Genevieve. With that taken care of, it should only be a matter of time . . .

Well, hopefully, only a matter of time. The last two assassins were good – really good. From a purely practical standpoint, it had been stupidly foolish to send Peter away – her only other source of protection. In her days with the Company, she’d only rated above average in hand-to-hand. She can take out a petty thief without blinking an eye – go toe-to-toe and come out on top with a skilled fighter from either the military or the mafia – but an assassin from an organization like the Company? She’s not sure. She barely survived the last three attempts . . .

He might not have been able to conceivably defend her without alerting the Company, but at the very least, Peter would’ve been able to help her come up with a plan of defense. Provide her with weapons under the table. Resources.

If only . . . if only she hadn’t . . .

If only _he_ hadn’t . . .

It just eats at her, this sourness bittering the insides of her chest. Because she misses him. She misses him terribly, as much as she’s angry with him. As much as she’s angry with herself. Because she knows Peter – she knows that everything she said – that he wanted to go back to Gen, that he was hiding things deliberately from her – that wasn’t the truth. He’s not that kind of person. She’d just been so stressed, so crazed about everything that has been going on. She’d just been so hurt that he couldn’t tell her things, trust her.

That she couldn’t trust herself, to tell him things, either.

But she can’t think about that right now. She’s got the bakery. She’s got security cameras to install at her place, escape routes to devise. Money to funnel to surreptitiously funnel to her family, to keep them on their trip and away, far away from this mess. And Margot’s been asking questions, prodding, and she can’t have Margot ask too many questions . . .

*

At first, Peter’s just pissed.   
  
Pissed and hurt but mostly pissed. Like ... he took on Company debt for her, all because he couldn’t stand to see her trapped and unhappy. He’d been going in and out of her life just to see her - see her smile like the sun came out after a rainy day - even though the travel was a bitch and his family’s been wondering where the hell he’s been. And, not to mention, he quite literally took a fucking bullet for her.   
  
But after the anger dies off - and the tequila (which, okay, probably not the best idea, considering he’s still recovering from said gut wound) - there’s just this ... emptiness echoing in the hollows of himself. The knowledge that she has every right to be furious with him – that he fucked up, big time – that’s what kills him.

And then there’s also the worry. Because someone’s still after her, and he genuinely has no idea who – and no way to help her. He can’t go to the Company and demand they reopen their surveillance and investigation without alerting them to their now-past relationship. And asking Trevor to do it under the table – again – is not something he can do to his friend, either, even if Trevor were willing.

Still, he’s not entirely out of options.  
  
“Hey, man,” he says, stopping into Lucas’ office. “I’m doing a side project. How easy would it be to hack into a private security camera?”  
  
Lucas raises both eyebrows over his glasses. “You _do_ know who you’re talking to, right?”  
  
“That’s why I asked,” Peter says, blithely.

Lucas sits back in his chair. “Do I want to know what’s this about?”

Peter hesitates. He knows Lucas would never rat – but he knows he can’t put Lucas at risk. And Lara Jean would kill him if he did.

“It’ll be better for everyone if you can just get me the program,” Peter says, evenly.

Lucas chews on the inside of his cheek. “Give me a couple of days,” he says. Peter nods, and heads out the door. But before he leaves, Lucas calls, “Hey, PK. Just take care of my girl.”

Peter glances over his shoulder at him – Lucas’ back is already to him, typing away on his console. Peter taps the door jamb and heads out.

*

Lara Jean sighs and continues scrolling through her laptop. The construction costs are eating into her budget like wildfire. Her foreman says it’s another two weeks, but it seems agonizingly far away.

She jumps at the knock on her office door. “Miss Covey?” one of the construction workers says. “There’s a lady looking for you.”

The hairs on the back of her neck rise. On instinct, she reaches for the gun, strapped to the underside of her desk. “Did she say who?”

“Yeah. A Ms. Stormy?”

Lara Jean relaxes. “I’ll go see her,” she says, and follows him out of the small back office, through the kitchen, and onto the main floor of the bakery, where her favorite regular customer is surveying the construction site with appraising eyes.

“Hi, Stormy,” Lara Jean says, going over to hug her. “I’m sorry we’re not in a state to serve you my famous spiced rum bundt cake.”

“That must’ve been some burst pipe,” Stormy says.

Lara Jean forces a smile. “You don’t know the half of it,” she says. “Um, I don’t have any baked goods, but I do have some tea in the kitchen, if you want?”

Stormy looks around again. “I’d love to, my darling,” she says, hooking her arm through Lara Jean’s. “Just promise to spike it with a bit of that rum you were talking about.”

Lara Jean giggles, and she does end up obliging in the back office, giving Stormy a little cup of rum next to her cup of tea. They sit at her desk and chatter about little mundane things – the neighborhood – what Stormy’s been up to – when Stormy suddenly asks, “And how’s your young man?”

Lara Jean takes a sip of her tea. “I don’t have a young man,” she answers, this time, truthfully.

Stormy gives her a long, knowing look. “Lara Jean. Tall, dark, and dreamy?” She leans forward a little, conspiratorial. “Or that other one, sweet, kind, and perfect?”

Lara Jean sighs, rubbing her collarbone, where her locket used to lie flat against her skin. It hadn’t felt right, anymore, to keep wearing it. “Stormy . . . I think I messed everything up,” she admits, finally.

“That, or you made it a hell of a lot more interesting,” Stormy muses, which makes Lara Jean laugh, despite herself, for the first time in weeks. Stormy sits back, chuckling, and then when their laughter dies off, she asks, shrewdly, “When’s the last time you had a tae kwon do sparring session?”

Lara Jean nearly drops her teacup. “Pardon? I – um. I don’t – ”

“From my estimate, at least two years?” Stormy takes a sip of her tea. “You still move like a fighter, though. That’s good. That’s good instincts. You got that from your mother.”

Her blood freezes, before the rush of heat – anger, shock – jolts through her. “How did you know - ?” Then, terribly, panic – “Are you from the – ”

“The Company? Somewhat.” Stormy sets down her tea. “In my day, it was called the Agency. Before it was . . . subsumed, as you can say.” Her lips turn up sardonically at the corner. “I cut out a few years after that. The change in new ownership was not to my liking. Too . . . _restrictive_.”

Lara Jean looks down at her hands, floored. “I don’t know what to say.”

“You don’t have to say a thing,” Stormy says, airily. “You’re a good girl, sweetheart. Too good for that vile institution. Your mother would be proud. But . . . we have other pressing matters, don’t we?” She grabs a pen from Lara Jean’s desk and writes something down on one of her Post-Its, before she slides it across the table. “The master there used to train recruits. He’s good. One of the old guard. Discrete.”

She shakes her head. “I still don’t know what to say,” she admits, reeling. The idea of this sweet – albeit feisty – old woman was once an international assassin, is kind of mind-blowing, to say the least.

“Then don’t say anything,” Stormy says, waving her hand. She raises her little cup of rum. “Bottoms up.”

Lara Jean smiles at her, and they clink their cups. After she takes a sip, she says, quietly, “Stormy?”

“Yes?”

She licks her lips. “Can you tell me more about my mother?” She looks down at the table. “I remember her, but . . . I remember her as my mom. But she had a whole different life, one that I only know a little bit about.”

When she looks up at her, Stormy is looking at her sympathetically. “Of course,” she says, and reaches for her hand. “I know she loved you girls.” At that, Lara Jean tightens her grip, a mix of emotions – grief, happiness, love – sweeping through her. “She was always talking about you three, how different you were from each other, even the baby – ”

Lara Jean snorts, tearful. “Yeah, Kitty was always something . . .”

Stormy smiles. “That’s what Evie would say. ‘With Kitty, it was always something . . .’”

*

As promised, Lucas delivers the program in a USB drive mailed to Peter’s apartment a week later. He is completely unsurprised to find that once he gets the program up and running, it doesn’t prompt him for any further information – it just lays out the live feed from Ingrid + Humphrey.

Peter looks at the black and white footage. Nothing surprising or suspicious – just the construction workers laying out the finishing touches to the shop. He’ll run a facial recognition background check on each of them, just in case.

He sighs, tired, and goes back to looking at Lara Jean’s old file. A lot of it is redacted, but it lays out the basics of her career at the Company. There’s really nothing in there that would ring any alarm bells.

Peter exits out of the feed, but then notices other files in the drive – dated files, one for each day this past year. Curious, he opens the most recent one. It’s indeed the security footage for last week.

_Well, you’re already being a creepy creeper,_ he thinks, and clicks on a random file from a few months back and puts it on fast forward. Just another ordinary day at the bakery – Lara Jean and her employees scattering back and forth from the kitchen to the front, customers bustling. He purposely exits out when he sees the start of the day for Lara Jean – opening up the shop, making coffee, all by herself. He doesn’t want to see McClaren come in.

His personal e-mail pings. Peter glances at the pop-up, then does a double-take. _Pinnacle Labs: Your Results . . ._ He clicks on the message and reads the directions for logging in to see the paternity test results.

He chews on the inside of his cheek. Last week, he’d gone back to Illinois. It had been fairly easy to get a sample – just a simple surveillance at the grocery store, and then swiping Ryan’s discarded smoothie straw from the trash. He had every opportunity to toss it back in the garbage, and never look back. Instead, he mailed in his swab and the one he took from Ryan’s straw under assumed names to a private laboratory.

And now what? Does it really change _anything_? Or is he just being chickenshit, afraid he’ll end up like his dad – that he’s _already_ like his dad? After all, he fucked it up with Lara Jean so bad.

He exits out his email, and goes back to looking at the feed, rubbing his tired eyes. Maybe this is all a very bad idea. Maybe he should just get more alcohol and just –

But then something occurs to him, something far off and distant in his memory – and he starts searching through the files, old files, from months and months back – and it takes a while, but he finally finds it.

A guy, ski-masked, entering the shop with his gun raised, during closing.  
  
Peter watches. Lara Jean doesn’t even appear to notice the man - and then suddenly she strikes, taking care of him in less than three minutes flat. The robber hobbles out of the shop, clutching his broken arm in agony.   
  
Lara Jean just continues to close up the shop like nothing happened.   
  
Peter pauses the video, making note of the date stamp. It was while he was in Belarus, wasn’t it? He’d gotten that text from her. Out of the blue.   
  
Why wouldn’t she tell him about this, though?   
  
Peter rubs his chin, and re-watches the video. He pauses it right at the point where the robber leaves the shop. There’s a tattoo - on his broken arm, peeking out from underneath his sleeve.   
  
He zooms in.   
  
Cyrillic. 

*

Lara Jean stares at the full-length mirror.

There are bruises all over her arms and legs. Her bottom lip is cut. Her left eye is bruised, swollen.

But at least she managed to take down Master Chae an hour ago, the first time in the two weeks she started re-training. He’d laughed when she helped him up, pleased. “You might actually survive this,” the old man had teased.

She had laughed, but in the quiet of her bedroom, fresh from a hot shower, she just feels tired. The shop is re-opening next week – she’s planning a fancy debut. The theme is going to be Starlight and Sprinkles. She should be relieved – ecstatic, thrilled. They tried to take her down and here she is, still standing.

And yet all she can think of is how tired she is, how utterly exhausted. Like she’s been treading water, and there’s an anchor around her ankle, pulling.

She blow-dries her hair haphazardly, pulls on a pink color block sweatshirt – one of her favorites – and collapses in a heap on her bed, relishing the way the warmth of sleep steadily overtakes her. Just a couple of moments, that’s all she needs . . .

And suddenly, she’s in Gen’s childhood home, a place almost as familiar to her as her own, and she’s walking up the stairs, hair in pigtails and backpack slung over her shoulder, to Gen’s bedroom. She pushes the door open –

And suddenly she’s back in the woods, at the ski lodge, and Gen is in the car, driving away – and Lara Jean lifts her sniper rifle and aims for the back of her head –

_Take the stupid shot –_

And she pulls the trigger, and there’s a bang, so sudden and loud that she blinks, gasping – and she’s back in Gen’s bedroom, standing before Gen, a crying, much younger Gen, pregnant, sad –

“We’ll still be friends, right?”

Lara Jean gapes at her, fumbling. Footsteps pad up the stairs. Gen’s expression changes, to fear. “He’s coming.”

Lara Jean blinks awake, her chest tight, like she’d been swimming, swimming for hours, and she can’t go on any longer, because of this anchor on her ankle.

She has a feeling what that anchor may be.

When the guard brings Gen to the visitor’s hall, and sits her behind the security glass, Lara Jean is at least satisfied to see that she looks surprised. Lara Jean picks up the phone, and after some hesitance, Gen does, too.

“We need to talk,” Lara Jean says.

Gen’s lips purse, before she grinds out, “So. Talk.”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, long-time no see. i really apologize for the delay. work has just been incredibly busy. still chugging away at this. thank you to whoever is still reading. i promise, i will finish this.


	11. Next

There’s a long moment where they look at everywhere but at each other. Finally, Lara Jean sighs and meets Gen’s gaze. “For the longest time, I thought I did you a favor, not shooting you,” she says, slowly. “And I couldn’t understand why you would hate me so much. What did I ever do to you?” Gen’s gaze brittles, and her lip curls in distaste. “All I could remember was how mean you could be when we were kids – how you almost killed me. Twice. But then I thought – I realized . . . maybe it’s not so much what I did, but what I didn’t do.” The flare of anger in Gen’s eyes dies, snuffed out by the truth in Lara Jean’s words, and she looks away, wiping hastily at her cheeks. “I know about Ryan,” Lara Jean says, gently. Kindly. “And I know – I know he’s not Peter’s, is he? And he’s also not that other guy in college you were seeing. He’s – ”

“I honestly don’t know,” Genevieve admits, swallowing hard. The hand holding the phone shakes and she hugs herself with her free arm. “I never asked for a DNA test. I couldn’t – I couldn’t really take it, at the time. But yes. There’s a chance he’s . . .” She stops, and whispers the last part, “ . . . my father’s.”

Lara Jean’s stomach curdles. She’d figured. If Gen had known for _certain_ Ryan was Peter’s at the time, she would’ve said so outright. She would’ve done the same if he was the other guy’s. Peter had once told her she was so desperate back then, so angry and in pain, and she would’ve latched onto anyone for safety.

“I’m so sorry,” she says, genuinely. “Not just – for that. But for not – for not realizing sooner. For not trying to help, back then.”

Gen chews the inside of her cheek, eyes glassy. Lara Jean nods once, and moves to hang up the phone. She really didn’t expect Gen to accept her apology, or to give one in return. It doesn’t matter. She said what she needed to say, and now she can move on.

But then Gen says, quietly, “You were a kid, too, you couldn’t have known.”

Lara Jean stops, stunned. She doesn’t know what to say to that.

Gen continues, “And I just want you to know – I didn’t order that hit on you.”

“I know now. Peter said. I didn’t want to believe him, but . . .” Her voice trails off.

Genevieve’s eyes dart, like she’s deciding on what to say. “You know, he’s crazy about you,” she says. “He told me so, himself.”

Lara Jean still can’t really reply – there really isn’t anything she can say to that, either. So instead, she replies, “If you need anything . . .?”

Gen’s brows dip. “Um . . . do you . . . ?” She pauses, and starts again, haltingly. “Do you still make that chocolate swirl cheesecake? You know? Back when we were still . . .” She trails off, but Lara Jean knows what she’s about to say. _Back when we were still friends._

“Yes, yeah I do,” Lara Jean says. “I’m, uh – kinda surprised you still remembered.”

Gen nods, blinking. “Yeah. Of course I do. That graham cracker crust was really good.”

Despite the utter insanity of the situation, Lara Jean snorts – but not derisively. “You said it was too crumbly.”

“Because of that one time you _burned_ the butter. You set the alarms off!”

“I was _twelve_! _”_ She shakes her head. “Your mother was so mad at us!”

Gen giggles a little bit. It’s still . . . it’s still _weird_ – but at the same time, Lara Jean feels the knot in her chest loosen a touch, a little lightness crackling in.

“She was just mad about the scene it caused . . .”

*

Ingrid + Humphrey’s grand Starlight and Sprinkles Re-Opening Ball is a success. The neighborhood starts flocking in for dessert, eager to see the repairs and sample some favorite treats. The children oooh and aaah over the decorations – Christmas lights, softly glowing star-shaped lanterns, and glitter abound. Lara Jean and her staff had spent hours crafting towers of different cupcakes, all covered with glittery star-shaped sprinkles – they go very quickly. It’s a wall of noise in the shop, from the chatter to the jazz music blaring from the repaired jukebox.

“I’m going to have to take your card,” a young woman says, munching on a red velvet cupcake. “I’d love to have you do my wedding.”

“Of course,” Lara Jean says, thrilled. She reaches over for the stack by the register and hands a card off with flourish.

“I love _Casablanca_ ,” the woman sighs, before wafting away. Lara Jean watches her reach her fiancé, and the two cuddle briefly by a cupcake tower before heading off into the night.

Suddenly sad, Lara Jean shuffles her business cards in her hands, looking at the flowery calligraphy. She had briefly contemplated changing the name. Something that reminded her less of Peter, and their time together in Oregon. But she hadn’t the courage to let him, and that memory of him, go. Not yet, anyway.

She sets the cards down, and turns to the back wall, admiring the cards of congratulations she and the staff tacked up. Notes and letters from the locals and her regular customers. Postcards from her family, now back from their respective trips, all safe and sound. There’s one that’s her favorite – all the way from India.

_Congratulations. Save some peanut butter ones for us. Love, John Ambrose._ She trails a finger over his signature, smiling fondly, and then turns around and goes back to work.

*

There are several categories of assassins at the Company, and they’re utilized for their specialties according to the circumstances of each hit. There are people who are absolutely masters of disguise and espionage – trained to kill only if necessary to extract information and get out quickly and quietly, without notice. There are people like Lara Jean, who can make things look like every day accidents or natural causes – a “clean” kill. There are people like Trevor, who do surveillance and protection, and clean up the messes that their colleagues inevitably make. And then there are people like Peter, who use, what Trevor likes to say, is the “Mack truck approach” – kill quickly, efficiently, and it doesn’t particularly matter if there’s a lot of blood or if it’s on the news, so long as you get out and aren’t spotted.

This time, though, Peter has to borrow another method. Not is usual style. But it’s the only way to make sure things don’t lead back to Lara Jean, or himself.

So that’s why he finds himself slipping out of the massive Hamptons home of a Russian mobster in the night, dressed in dark clothing and lugging a backpack. He jogs a mile down the road to the car, but waits until he’s about half hour away before dumping the tools, piece by piece every other mile during the drive. Can’t have the police finding out the house’s boiler was tampered with. Tomorrow morning, when the guards try to wake him up, they’ll discover their boss peacefully passed away in the middle of the night from carbon monoxide poisoning. What a tragedy that the detectors needed new batteries, too . . .

Peter pulls off the side of the road after he dumps the last piece of equipment used for the mission. Then he pulls the thumb drive he used to copy the information from Yevgeny Kuznetsov’s laptop and cellphone and plugs it into his own laptop, searching through the e-mails and text messages. Some of it is in Russian, but there’s enough in English that when he realizes what he’s reading, Peter curses, “God fucking dammit.”

He opens the glove compartment and pulls out the burner cell. “Come on, Covey . . . pick up.”

But it just rings and rings, and he hangs up and tries again. Then again.

Of course Lara Jean doesn’t pick up. Maybe she threw her burner out the window. Who the fuck knows. Peter curses, hits the steering wheel in frustration, and then peels off the side of the road, headed for New York City.

Thirty minutes into the drive, though, he has to turn on his wipers – it’s started to snow. But he doesn’t let his foot off the pedal.

*

After everything’s been put away, and her employees begin their respective treks home, Lara Jean looks around the shop, tired, but pleased. The chairs are up on the tables – the floor just has to be mopped. She left the Christmas lights up, because she likes the look of them, even though it’s spring. She might just leave them there, all the way to Christmas.

Chris comes hobbling out of the kitchen with the mop and bucket, now dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, instead of the poofy ball gown Lara Jean made her wear for the theme of the grand re-opening. “I’ll do it,” Lara Jean insists, waving her off.

“You’re still dressed up,” Chris says, pointing to her baby blue frilly gown, borrowed from Stormy.

“I’ll change. Get out of here,” Lara Jean says.

Chris gives her a look, but then sets the bucket and mop aside and gives her a fierce hug. “Congratulations,” she says, as she pulls away.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” Lara Jean says, truthfully.

“Damn straight,” Chris chirps. “Remember my end of the year bonus.”

Lara Jean laughs. Chris salutes and retreats back into the kitchen, to grab her bagged-up dress and go out the service exit. Lara Jean picks up the mop, contemplating the floor for half a second before she shrugs her shoulders and carries the cleaning materials back into the kitchen. She’ll do it tomorrow morning. It’s late, and she’s tired, and after all, it would ruin Stormy’s dress. She stuffs her heels into her purse and slips on her sneakers, then gathers her skirts up in her hand, and starts dialing for a cab.

But then something catches her eye outside the shop’s windows. Amazed, she slips her phone back into her purse and walks outside, the bell jingling. The night air blows straight into her face, sending her hair flying, but Lara Jean laughs in delight, face turned up to the steel-grey sky.

Snow. In springtime. The pretty flakes are falling fast, and sticking to the ground, and she can tell it’s going to be one of those freak storms that will completely melt by sunrise . . . but it’s cold enough to make her rub her bare upper arms – she’d left her coat at home because it’s _spring_ – and she doesn’t care, because it’s snowing in New York City, and her shop is back, and it’s all almost perfect.

She stretches out her hand, catching a few fat flakes and watching them disappear into the warmth of her palm, before she turns around and locks up the door. She looks at her translucent reflection in the door glass – side-swept curls, ruby-red lips, beautiful powder blue dress – and for the first time in what feels like ages, smiles at what she sees there.

It’s not even ten minutes to the train station. Fancy dress or no, she’s suddenly itching for the walk.

Lara Jean starts off briskly, admiring the way the snow falls, how it dampens and softens even the late-night hum and bustle of the city. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend that the only sound is the muted crunch of snow underneath her sneakers.

But then she opens them, because she hears that same sound, coming from behind. She stops and glances over her shoulder. Someone is walking down towards her, shoulders hunched, at a steady pace.

She shakes the feeling off and presses forward down the block. Except up ahead, someone has turned the corner and is headed towards her – another man, hands out from his jacket pockets.

Lara Jean stops, and looks behind her. The man behind her has now become two.

The wind kicks up again, and this time it’s not just a chill, it’s pure coldness slithering through her ribcage.

_Shit._

Lara Jean checks ahead – still coming – and takes three quick steps back and darts into an alleyway. The footsteps have become the distinct tread of running, almost out-thundering her heartbeat. Ignoring the smell, she heads for the dumpster and darts behind it, crouching.

_Oh shit_ -

She digs into her bag – pulls out her gun, silencer on – reaches up her dress and snatches the blade strapped to her thigh, readying herself.

_Here goes nothing._

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, sorry for the very long delay. thank you for still reading and hanging in there.


	12. Next Part 2

Three different treads against the snow. One heavy, booted – the other lighter, sneakered – the other quieter still, ghostly. That one. That one she’ll have to be careful of.

They’re arguing. Something about . . . Two of them are fighting about the payout.

Anger spikes through her. Lara Jean closes her eyes, makes a wish.

_Mom . . ._

And then she stands up and fires, shifting her aim at the three assassins. Two scatter, yelling, but the third leaps at her without hesitation and Lara Jean falls back, sweeping her knife at him.

Instinct takes over – she dodges and weaves, thrusts and strikes. Everything is a blur of silver and shadows, whirls of grunts and thuds. But it’s no good. _Defending too much,_ she thinks, as she parries another blow and avoids another. She’s too close, and everyone is moving too quickly, for her to aim and fire her gun properly. The only choice is to –

The tallest one swipes his arm out, his machete whooshing through the air, and Lara Jean ducks under his swing, punching the butt of her gun upwards against his elbow while simultaneously stabbing him through his exposed ribs. He doubles over, a choked, cut-off sound –

_Run._

She somersaults away, her momentum helping her yank the knife out, and she takes off down the alleyway, flipping her gun in her hand to change the position before firing blindly behind her. She hears ricochet and cursing, but doesn’t check to see if she made contact – just runs as fast as she can.

If she can get to the subway, get on a train before they get to her – call the Company, beg for help – wait her pursuers out – stay alive until a protection team _gets_ here . . .

She runs over a subway grate, feels the hot air whoosh up her skirts – hears the far-away rattle, and thinks – _Train coming_ – and she turns and fires again, still running, until her gun is empty. She has more ammo in her purse, but she can’t dig it out fast enough. _Shit._

But the subway entrance is _right there_ – it’s right there – and she dives down the stairs, her sides burning with the effort. The train is coming – she can hear it – and she prepares to take the last ten steps to the landing at a jump, when suddenly something hits her from behind, something big, and as the world spins and as she tries to go limp, tumbling and turning down the subway steps, onto the landing, and down the last, painful flight, she realizes it’s one of them, he’s tackled her, and – _no!_ – she lost her gun –

Groaning, dizzied, Lara Jean blinks – the assassin is a few feet away from her, also dazed. There’s a sudden whoosh of hot, fetid air and a clattering rumble and desperately, painfully, Lara Jean struggles to her feet and staggers towards the train that’s just screeched to a halt. On the way, she finds her knife on the station floor, and considers briefly turning back to finish her attacker off, but there’s no time. No one gets out of the train, thank god, and she stumbles into the empty car, collapsing against the middle pole gratefully. As the doors close and the train pulls away, she spares a glance at the man, just managing to stagger up, with one his companions joining him at the bottom of the steps.

Lara Jean takes a deep breath before she stops, hissing. She must have broken a rib or two. She can feel blood dribbling from a wound on her right temple, and dabs at the injury with shaking fingers. Great. She digs into her purse, but can’t find her phone. Shit. She must’ve lost it in the fall.

A sudden clatter makes her look up. Through the compartment doors, she can see two men heading towards her train car. Fuck. _How did they –_

She limps to the other end of the car, wrenches the door open and staggers through to the next car. No gun. She still has her knife. And her hairpins. She tugs one glittering barrette out of her bloodied hair and holds onto it, tight, as she stumbles through the cars.

The train screeches to a halt – Lara Jean nearly falls over, but runs forward, doubling her speed – dashes through the doors as soon as she opens. She can hear footsteps pounding behind her and before she heads up the steps she turns and lets a hairpin loose, slicing through the air. It catches the closest assassin on the cheek, and he doesn’t even stop, so she shifts her grip on her handbag and flings it, as hard as she can, in his face and follows it up with a roundhouse kick to his stomach. She ends up losing the bag, but he falls away, winded and now exposed to the poison in her hairpin, and she turns, twirling her knife in her hand for balance, and concentrating on his companion.

He lunges first, and she sidesteps, grabbing his wrist and pulling him forward so she can swipe at his neck. He ducks and punches her in the side, right in her broken ribs, and Lara Jean would have screamed at the explosion of pain, if she could only breathe. She lets go of his arm, and he grabs hers, twisting it up behind her back.

_Fuck!_

He snatches her knife away from her, brings it up her neck –

With her last ounce of strength, ignoring the way her sides shriek with the effort, Lara Jean ignores the knife and elbows her attacker in the gut. The blade manages to catch her on the throat but she twists away, coughing and gasping, and backhands the assassin across the face – more desperation than muscle behind her punch – and runs through the turnstyle, and up the steps.

_Cab._ She hits the landing. Hears her last assassin follow her up the steps. _Police car. Anything._ She runs up the last flight, running her hand through her hair. _Where is it?_ Her last hairpin. _Where the hell –_

At the top of the steps, on the street again, she runs forward, checking over her shoulder.

And runs into a brick wall. Or at least it feels like it.

Lara Jean staggers backwards, yelling – _Three. There were only_ three _of them –_ She’d counted only three assassins, now there’s a fucking fourth – She punches wildly, her knuckles biting into his cheekbone with a sharp _crack!_

“Lara Jean!”

She stops, shocked. “Peter,” she breathes, so stunned everything else seems to fall away as she gazes up at him. A million thoughts go through her – _He came back – for me – didn’t he?_ – and then he looks back at her, tired, and wan, and says, with a little, almost helpless shrug, and looking around them, at the still-falling snow –

“Well, you said I should see the city while it’s snowing, right?”

She wants to laugh, because how could he _remember,_ but she ends up biting her bottom lip back in a ragged sob. She reaches to touch his cheek, but before she can, his eyes widen at something behind her, and he pulls her forward and behind him, shoving her into an alleyway. “Get down!”

She ducks, clutching Peter’s arm as they both crouch in the alley, just in time to hear the punched-out breaths of multiple silenced bullets.

“Two are dead,” she says, as Peter loads his side-arm. “That’s the last one.”

He spares her a glance over his shoulder, and grins. “That’s my girl.”

Despite herself, she gives him a pained smile, wiping blood still trickling into her eye. He ducks out for a second, fires a few times, and retreats, back up against the wall. Amid a spray of bullets, he hisses, “I went to your place first, then the shop – saw your handiwork – I figured you might have gotten off at the next stop.”

“Where’s your car?”

He nods across the street. “Go. I’ll cover you.”

_No._ “No,” she says, vehemently.

“Don’t be stupid.”

“The last time I left you behind, an entire house blew up and we – ” she says, but stops, because the gunfire has stopped. Before they can react, the assassin plows into view, attacking Peter with vicious punches and kicks so quickly he barely has time to push Lara Jean away. Too exhausted to do anything, Lara Jean can only watch as Peter fights back, kicking the assassin in the stomach and then grabbing him by the arm. He wrenches him forward and up against the alleyway wall in an unbreakable hold.

“This has to be clean,” Peter says. He nods at her, and Lara Jean realizes he’s talking about her hairpin. Confused, she rakes her fingers through her bedraggled curls, and finally finds it.

Silently, she steps forward and glares at the struggling man. His eyes widen when he realizes what’s coming, but he bucks against Peter’s grip – but he just grabs him by the hair and keeps his head steady. Lara Jean takes her hairpin and pricks it, a tiny scratch, nothing more, at the base of his neck.

Peter drops him, and he trips and falls to the ground, clutching at his throat helplessly and hacking before his final shudders slowly die away.

Lara Jean collapses against the building wall, holding her side. She slides down, and heedless of the fact that she’s in a New York City alleyway, and it’s snowing, lands in a heap. She lets her head rest against the wall and closes her eyes.

After a moment, she hears Peter walk up to her. She opens her eyes as he crouches before her. “I need to find a phone,” she says, checking her temple cautiously. Her fingers come away dry. “I should call the Company. Get a protection detail.”

Peter reaches out. She eyes him, wary, as he brushes some hair away from the wound on her head. She can’t remember the last time he touched her like this – it seems like ages ago. It _was_ ages ago. “Don’t need to,” he says. “I took care of it.”

She can feel her brows dip. “Took care . . .?”

Peter nods, then stands. He puts out a hand, and she takes it, cautious. “Can you walk?”

She rises up, on unsteady legs. “Yeah.” She drops his hand quickly though.

If Peter notices, he doesn’t react. “I saw that you stabbed the first guy. What about the second?”

She nods down at the body. “Same as him. Hairpin. He’s down at the stop.”

“Good. Meet me at the diner. I’ll clean up the first one, make it look like a mugging. These two will be clean. Well, considering the circumstances.” He stuffs his hands in his coat pockets, looks around. “It’s stopped snowing.”

Her head is swimming, and it’s not just from the head injury. Lara Jean just mutely looks up at him, the shock of it all just seeping slowly in. She can barely process what he’s saying.

Peter almost shuffles his feet. He says, carefully, like he’s afraid she might snap at him, “We should talk.”

And because there really isn’t anything else to say, she replies, quietly, “Yeah. I guess we should.”

-tbc-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all, long-time no see.
> 
> If you're still reading, I apologize for not getting this installment up sooner. A lot of things have been happening for my family and me - I got insanely busy at my new job, and then I ended up leaving that job for another.
> 
> The next two parts will most likely take a long time too, unless the AAFLJ trailer drops anytime soon, which given everything that's going on, i doubt. I like to tie these things into movie and bookverse, and if I don't have at least a guess as to what's going to happen in the third movie, I can't really tie up this Bullets and Cupcakes storyline. Also, I just started this new job, and I anticipate I'll be getting busy with that shortly. 
> 
> Thanks for your patience, all. Please let me know if you'd like me to work on something short and sweet, and I'll see what I can do.


	13. Next Part 3

He finds her sitting in a middle of the diner, shoulders stooped and nursing a Coke in a booth. The waitress is hovering over her, muttering. “Look, miss, you should really get checked out by a doctor – ”

“Hey,” Peter says, sliding into the cushioned seat across from her.

The waitress – Peter recognizes her, from the couple of times they stopped over to eat a late night dinner here – glares at him. “You’ve got some nerve!” she snaps, jabbing her finger at him wildly. Peter, confused, glances at Lara Jean – then realizes what this could possibly look like to an unsuspecting and well-meaning bystander. Covey had managed to clean up a little, probably in that tiny diner bathroom, but she’s still covered in scratches and bruises, and she hadn’t managed to totally wash off the dried blood on her temple. 

“It’s okay, um,” Peter squints at the waitress’ nametag. “Joan. I didn’t – ”

“He really didn’t,” Lara Jean says, reassuringly. “I was just in a . . . car accident. I’m okay.”

Joan gives him a long, measuring look before she says, kindly, “If you need anything . . .”

“I’d like a milkshake, actually,” Peter pipes up.

Joan sniffs and flounces away.

“I’m not getting that milkshake, am I,” he muses, trying to lighten the mood.

Lara Jean just presses her lips together around her straw. As she practically guzzles the Coke down, he asks, suspicious, “That’s spiked, isn’t it?”

“You bet your ass,” she mumbles.

He watches her polish the Coke with some wry bemusement – she’s never been able to handle her liquor. After a long, satisfying slurp and crackling of ice, Lara Jean pushes away the glass, sits back in her seat and heaves a sigh that seems to deflate her entire body. Her eyes flick up to meet his, and she cracks a small smile. “There.”

He grins back at her. “Feel better?”

“A little.” They’re interrupted by Joan, who places the milkshake down in front of Peter. She gives him another suspicious glare before turning on her heel to leave.

“Should I be insulted that she thinks I beat women?” 

“Well, to be fair, you most certainly have assassinated a few.”

He shrugs. “Fair. That’s fair.” He takes a sip of the milkshake – he’s actually starving – and glances around the diner, as does Lara Jean. There are a few people here and there chattering in their respective booths, but like most New Yorkers, they don’t pay them any heed, even with their albeit concerning appearances. 

“Sorry I took so long,” he says, quietly. “You left a bit of a mess with the first guy. But I made sure it looked like a mugging. Found your stuff.” He puts her bag on the table. “Phone and gun are inside.”

She takes it. “Thank you.”

“I needed to move this last guy a bit. Otherwise, it would look a little . . .”

“Understood.” Lara Jean hesitates, then says, “You said – you said you’d already taken care of things? What . . . exactly . . .?”

Peter hesitates himself, before setting aside his milkshake and pulling out the burner phone from his inside coat pocket. He slides it across the table to her. “Do you recognize him?”

Lara Jean stares blankly at the black and white mug shot. He can see her eyes narrow, studying the haggard expression – the sores around his mouth and nose. “He’s a kid,” she says, eventually. “It’s hard to tell, sometimes – with drug addicts – but . . . he couldn’t be more than eighteen? I . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know him, though.” 

Peter hesitates. “You’re right. His name was Alexander Kuznetsov. Eighteen years old. His father is Yevgeny Kuznetsov. Head of a local Russian mafia cell in the city. Or was.” 

“Was?”

“I took out Yevgeny today. He’s the one who ordered the cascade hit on you. No one will be coming, anymore.”

Lara Jean looks down at Peter’s phone again. “I don’t understand,” she says. “I don’t know them. I don’t – I don’t remember any of their names. I mean, there was one time, a few years ago, but it was a different cell, in Russia, not stateside – ”

“Alexander was addicted to drugs,” he says, interrupting her. “Meth, crack. You name it, he’s probably done it. In and out of rehab since he hit his teens. He owed money to a local dealer. Some minor-league asshole in Hell’s Kitchen – the McMurrays. When Alexander showed up with no money and nothing but a broken arm for his trouble, the dealer had him killed.”

Her eyes flicker, almost in recognition, and he continues, haltingly, “When his father found out, he had the dealer and his men killed. But some of them talked. They had known he was going to rob your shop – couldn’t believe it when he came back beat up by a ‘little girl.’ Yevgeny’s men connected the dots back to you. But when the assassins who targeted your family ended up being killed, he realized something was up. He started digging for more information. He had some connections to the SVR. Who knew about you because of . . . because of Gen.”

Lara Jean looks up, startled. He gives her a limp, humorless smile.

“When she escaped prison, she had given intel to a friend. That friend had connections to the SVR. She didn’t order the hit – ”

“I – I know that,” she says, and he stares at her in surprise, which turns to shock when she says, softly, “We – I went to her. Talked it out. We’re . . . I guess we’re okay now. But I know she didn’t order the hit.” She pauses, then says, “But I guess she may have given this friend enough intel.”

He nods, exhausted, and still reeling from this last bit of information. “Yes. Yeah, enough to lead them in the right direction.” 

“And that’s how this Yevgeny knew about me.”

“Yes. Then he changed the order to a cascade. Made sure that the people who came after you would be good. Really good.”

Lara Jean looks down, shakes her head. And he watches her – the twitch between her brows, the sudden set in her jaw . . . and she looks up at him, face slackening slowly, as everything fits into place, puzzle pieces that looked like they made sense now scattered and slotting into an entirely different formation. 

And then comes the realization, a rush that she expels in a breathless, high gasp, “The guy – the ski mask . . . I broke his arm. I could’ve killed – I did kill him, I got him killed, I killed a kid . . . ”

Peter grabs her trembling hands. “No,” he says, forcefully. “You defended yourself. He could’ve killed you. Okay? Okay?”

She blinks rapidly, but a few tears escape and she pulls both her hands away to wipe at her cheeks. Some of the dried blood smears and she looks down at her palms, making a frustrated sound.

Concerned, he starts to reach for her again, but she stands up, rattling the cutlery. “I – I gotta get out of here,” she mumbles, grabbing her bag.

“Okay,” he says, starting to rise too. “My car is just around the – ”

But she just blows right past him, forgetting the bill. Alarmed, he slaps down an obscene amount of cash on the table before following her out of the diner. She’s already halfway down the street before he manages to catch up – despite her injuries, and her height, she’s still freaking fast. “Lara Jean!”

“I’m about two seconds from a total meltdown, Kavinsky,” she says, cheeks flushed and not looking his way as she marches onwards. 

“I can see that,” Peter says, getting in front of her to slow her down and blocking her path. Lara Jean tries going around him, but he just holds out his arm. “Just – come on. Let me take you home. You’re not in any state – ”

She licks her lips and rolls her eyes skyward. “Peter. I can’t – ”

“Someone sees you like this they will ask questions,” Peter points out.

She sighs, glaring at the ground – shakes her head. Then finally she looks up at him. “Peter,” she says, pleadingly. “I can’t – I mean . . . Thank you. Okay? Thank you.”

He looks at her, his heart diving a little at the realization. “But there’s a ‘but.’”

She nods, slowly and regretfully. “But it’s just too much, and I – I need time. Alone.”

He can only pat at her upper arms. Her face crumples slightly, trying to stave off the tears. “Then you got it,” he says, hoarsely. Her head dips, and her forehead drops against his chest, and he hugs her to him . . . and it occurs to him, quickly and crazily, that it might be for the last time . . . 

She clutches at the front of his jacket – pulls away, just slightly enough so he rests his forehead against hers, eyes closed and heart thudding painfully. And he swallows, and when he can trust himself to speak again, he opens his eyes – looks into hers. “Whatever you want, Covey.”

Through her tears, she whispers, “Thank you, Peter.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks for your patience if you're still reading this. I hope to have the epilogue up sooner rather than later. :)


	14. Epilogue

Peter swirls the whiskey in his glass, keeping the mark in his periphery from across the crowded floor. He’s been nursing the same glass for hours. Normally, he wouldn’t think twice about drinking on the job, but this op is far too important to play games.

After all, it’s his last mission.

Down the bar, the redhead who’s been trying to get his attention for half the night finally leaves in a huff. Peter smirks but keeps his attention on Hewitt. He has to get this done, and done right. And then he’ll . . .

Well, that part he hasn’t figured out yet, not totally. He hasn’t even told Lara Jean. Which – he _could_ say he didn’t have the time, which is the truth – and he _could_ say he couldn’t tell her, because of confidentiality – also, the truth, but it’s _also_ true he chickened out.

They haven’t really talked. He’d stopped by a few times since that night, to check up on her, see how she’d been holding up. She hadn’t thrown him out, and had seemed – not _happy_ , but definitely not upset to see him. However, the brief conversations they managed to have were all about how the bakery was doing, if their respective families were okay. He knows this week she’ll start her baking classes with the neighborhood kids, and she’d seemed genuinely thrilled to get the ball finally rolling on that project.

There was so much he wanted to ask her – like why she didn’t tell him about the robbery. Why she didn’t tell him about McClaren. But then again, he didn’t want her to ask her tough questions – Ryan, for one. Gen, for another.

(Because then she’d might _see_ . . .)

The last time he saw her, just over a month ago, was to tell her he’d be away again for a while.

At the mention of that, it was almost like she’d drawn inward, her eyes almost shuttering, and she’d said, almost in disbelief, “What?”

He hadn’t really known what to say to that. “Lara Jean. That’s just – it’s just what it is.”

She’d pushed some wisps of hair out of her eyes. “Yeah, I know, I guess I – ” She shrugged, and leaned against the counter of the shop. “I guess I was just fooling myself, is all,” she’d finally muttered, looking out the window. It was early morning, before opening. The sky was still dark.

He’d bitten the inside of his cheek and looked away himself. “Covey – I know we haven’t – that I said I’d give you space – but now I’m shipping out again and – ”

“I – I know.” She’d folded one arm around herself, her free hand scratching idly at her collarbone. “It’s not fair. But with everything, I just – it’s been _really_. . .” Her voice trails, and she rubs her bare collarbone even harder.

He’d noticed something, just then. “You’re, um, not wearing your locket anymore.”

Startled, she’d glanced down, before crossing both her arms. “Yeah – I dunno. It felt . . . wrong . . . to still be wearing it? After . . .”

He’d nodded, once, slowly – looked off. The sick pit of worry that had been eating at him for months was beginning to roil again. “Yeah. Yeah, sure.”

She’d stepped forward, played with the collar of his jacket. “We’ll talk when you get back,” she’d murmured, looking more at his chest than up at him. Which was, he supposed, a good thing, because he wasn’t sure if he could stand the look in her eyes if she had.

And then she’d said, plaintive and unsure, “You _will_ get back, right?” She’d chanced a frightened glance up at him before darting her gaze resolutely back to his collar. “In one piece?”

He’d closed his own hand over hers, tight, suddenly _getting it_. He couldn’t make a promise like that – he never could. So he didn’t, and could only cup the back of her head and kiss her forehead in good-bye. He didn’t miss the way her fingers clutched, lingering one last time, around his collar, before he pulled away – wiped at his face, exhausted, and stalked out of the shop.

The op he’d been tasked with turned out to be relatively simple – he was in and out in less than two weeks, with a big fat deduction from his Company debt. He could’ve gone back to New York, had that talk with Lara Jean.

But he’d been resolved – he still had around two years left on his contract, but if he accepted an op with a high enough payload . . .

He’s not sure how she’ll react, given the circumstances. But – he knows, now, what’s been eating at her. He can’t give her the white picket fence, with 2.5 little ankle-biters and a golden retriever chasing the mailman. Not like how this McClaren guy could. He can’t even give her a guarantee that he’ll be safe, that he’ll be okay, that he won’t break her heart into a million pieces.

At least, not until he’s out of the Company for good. Hopefully, if all goes well here. And he’s not even certain of that.

All he knows, for certain, is that she can have his heart, break it into a million pieces if she wants. It’s hers.

In the corner, Hewitt and his gang of thugs finish up their meeting. They start to stand and head out of the club. Peter sets his drink down at the bar and stands, pretending to adjust his jacket sleeves, before sliding out after them.

Three guards – all big, all brawn – and Hewitt himself. One guard walks ahead, on his cell phone, probably calling for the car – Hewitt pauses mid-way, to fish a packet of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket – and Peter flicks the spring release tucked inside his right sleeve, the knife slicing discretely out, his head down –

And then suddenly, through the crowd, another figure, heading with a single-minded purpose, towards Hewitt –

Peter stops dead in his tracks, shocked – _No fucking way_ . . .

But it has to be.

And then instinct takes over, and Peter pushes forward, switching his knife out for a gun. The shift in the air alerts one of the guards, and before Peter knows it, three shots ring out and chaos erupts.

_Shit._ Peter pushes a patron out of the way, trying to make a split-second decision in his panic. _Holy shit._ The guard levels his gun at the would-be assassin, jostled by the screaming crowd trying to rush out of the club – Peter gets a brief glimpse of Hewitt being ushered out by the other guards, but still within his range – then a flash of the newcomer heading after them – and he makes his choice.

Peter shoots the guard in his aiming arm, runs and dives, legs first – he takes the guard out at the knees, toppling him easily – and as his momentum carries him forward, he shoots the incoming assassin in the shoulder. He stumbles backward at the impact, down but not out, and Peter flips the gun in his hand, grabbing it by the barrel, as he rises to his feet. He whips it around, clocking the downed guard in the temple, and turns rapidly, kicking the assassin in the stomach before bringing the gun around again slamming it into the back of the man’s head. He falls to the floor, out cold.

Breathing hard, Peter looks up – Hewitt’s gone, lost in the crowd. _Godfuckingdammit._ Pissed, he looks at the guard, unconscious and bleeding profusely from the temple. The smart thing would be to interrogate him – kill him – but there’s no time – others might be coming – and he has to get out – find out what the hell is going on . . .

Furious, Peter yanks at the other assassin’s arm, hauling him up and dragging him out towards the back entrance of the club, leaving the screaming patrons behind them.

*

“I just feel like I ruined everything,” Lara Jean laments, pressing her floured fingers into her eyes to stem the sting of tears. “I said – I said some awful things. But then I also think about the things he said – and – there are things he did – and I just don’t know. What if it’s too late?”

“I seriously doubt that, my dear,” Stormy says, leaning against the kitchen counter. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be coming back around here like a kicked puppy.”

Lara Jean looks up wryly from the pie she’d been finishing. “Maybe not. But it still doesn’t change the fact that he’s still with the Company. That he could still . . .” She swallows, her throat raw with the thought of the possibilities. “He could still . . . ”Unable to voice her biggest fear of all, some tears escape and drop into the rolled-out dough. “Shit. Well, that’s ruined.”

Stormy sighs, and walks over to her, patting her upper shoulders. “Lara Jean, kiddo . . .” She cups her chin. “Do whatever you want. If that’s what you want. But. Whatever you do. Just talk to each other first.” She laces her arm through the strap of her purse. “Now, for my troubles, I am going to grab a delicious chocolate chip cookie from your counter, on the house.”

Lara Jean smiles, and waves her off. She trashes the ruined dough and starts a new batch, brow furrowed.

She hadn’t meant to delay talking to Peter, but she had honestly been very busy with the bakery’s re-launch – not to mention, just trying to mentally recover from all that had happened. She just hadn’t want to think about all the whys and hows they had hurt each other – about other, bigger looming questions – like how she just couldn’t seem to tell him about the robber in the first place, and John Ambrose, and Ryan. But Stormy’s right. They should talk. And they will, once Peter gets back.

_If._

_Stop that._ She pats her hands on her apron, glaring at the dough. It looks awful. In disgust, she throws that batch away too, washes her hands, and heads out to the front to help Chris.

Except Chris is leaning across the counter, heavily engaged in an epic bout of flirting with a customer. Lara Jean rolls her eyes, not without affection, and slides over to bump her hip with hers.

“And _I’m_ just saying Linkin Park is – ow!”

“Busy?” Lara Jean teases, and then looks up at the customer – and stops.

“I was going to be,” Chris grumbles.

Lara Jean glances at the door back to the kitchen. “Hey, Chris, I need some help with inventory.”

“ _Now?_ ”

“Yes,” Lara Jean says, her voice brooking no argument. Surprised, Chris puts her hands up in defense. She makes a ‘call me’ motion, and heads into the back of the shop.

Lara Jean turns back to the customer, arms crossed. “She’s cute,” Trevor Pike says, pointing to the door with a grin.

“What’s happened?” she asks, evenly.

Trevor sobers. “We have a situation,” he says, all humor gone.

“I’m retired,” she reminds him.

He nods, slowly. “This is unofficial. It’s about Peter.”

She tries not to show her alarm. She never knew, not really, how much Trevor knew about her and Peter – how much of he’d guessed, how much Peter told him, how much he’d looked the other way. Perhaps the Company knows now and Trevor is trying to lure her in to –

“LJ, I’m being straight with you,” Trevor says, leaning over the counter. “He’s in trouble. I need your help.”

Lara Jean stares up at him, her heart thudding painfully in her chest, in her ears. It’s like she’s underwater suddenly, and drowning.

“What kind of trouble?”

*

The lump in the corner of the hotel room finally groans and stirs. “Ah, geez.”

Peter turns off the television, sets down his beer. He walks over to the moaning man, and levels his gun at his face.

“So, now that you’re up,” he says, pleasantly, as he cocks the gun, “You have exactly ten seconds to tell me what the hell you’re doing here, Dad.”

-The End-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience, all. hope to have another installment after the third movie comes out. :)


End file.
